


Time in a Bottle

by KryptoniteTie



Series: Welcome to My Nightmare (Tommy Series) [5]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Everyone Needs A Hug, Ford Pines Needs a Hug, Fountain of Youth, Gen, Hugs are good, Magnets How Do They Work, Off Brand Mind Flayers, Stan Pines Needs A Hug, Stangst, Tommy has issues, Well its not really a fountain of youth but they do get younger and there is a fountain, child abuse mention, literally there's a jank hoverboard in this and idk if it's accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 13:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20817950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KryptoniteTie/pseuds/KryptoniteTie
Summary: Seems there's been a miscommunication between Stan and Tommy, and now both are butting heads, with Ford caught in the middle. Will they all regress to old ways of thinking?





	1. Chapter 1

_ A sea breeze, the sun setting over the water. You look to your side and you see him, your best friend. What? You can’t make out his face? That’s fine. You don’t need to. Things are already so good. You’re happy! _  
  
_ But, what’s this? _  
  
_ Is something going to take him from you? _  
  
_ No! You don’t want that to happen! He’s been your best friend for so long! Without him, who will be your buddy? This isn’t fair! You’re so angry! You want to punch something! But, oh no, you did. _  
  
_ Your friend is angry. Something is broken. Something that can’t be fixed. No matter how hard you try it can’t be fixed. You just want to fix it. Why can’t you fix it?! _  
  
_ Everyone hates you now. Everyone is so mad at you. _  
  
_ But you were just angry. And scared. _  
  
_ Everyone hates you and it’s all your fault. _  
  
_ Y͢ou ͘us̡el̛e̷ss ̛lit͟tle ͢w͜h̢el̢p. _  
  
_ Wh̸y̷?̶ _  
  
_ Wh͏̮͍̬̺̰̲y ͔̫͙͈c̡̩̥̘͕o͔̞̳͓͙͚u͕͖̗ld̪̼̤n̪͎͎̘͚̣’t͍ ̼̯y͡o͖̱̲̳͙u̗͡ _  
  
** _Ha̘̯͈̗̤̠ͩ̽̅̈͆͒v̵͚ͨẻ͒̚ ̼̟̏̎j̵u͏͙̱͔̟̪͙͇s͚̀͘t_ ** **** __  
**** __  
** ** ** ** ** _P͕̪̟̓͌ͨ͠l̵̆͋a̺͔ y̗͈̹ ͢e͍̠̿̍ ̦̈́d͍̻́̑̍͠ͅ ͖͔̫͉ ̴̹̦ͭ̊n î̛͚̩̻̽̈ ̲͍̀͌͡c͉͉͋̿ ̢͖͓͖e̖͈͙̳̭͔͢ͅ_ ** **** __  
**** __  
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** _F̧͍͠o̼͕̫̫̬̙̥͘͢͝ṛ̸̡͚͖͚̱̃̅͛ͩ̅ ̲͖͖͓͚̹̗̤̮̹͙͚̟ͅḾ̡̗̜̞̬̜͕̣͚͉̲̩̘̖ͬ̆ͣͮ̐̓̍ͥ͌̎̄̎o̙̼̮̖̠̩̿ͫ͌́̃͐m̯̱̥̭̹̣̟͓̭̙̯͐̅͌̆̽ͭ̎͐̾ͪͣ͡m̑̇͊̌̋̋̓y̻̩̗̻̲͍̘͍̠̬͙̟̫̯ͅ?̳̪̰͑ͯ̑_ ** **** __  
  
**S̵̢v̵-̴̵̢͟͟͠͡o̡͝l̷̴̶҉̡͟͠?̕͞҉̵̧͘͜͞͡ ̵͘P҉̧rw̵̶͟͟͞͠,̧͝ ̛҉͜x̵-̶̷҉̶m ̸̴̕b̵z̵̷ ̶̡҉-̢͟͢͜͝͡v͟z̶̛-͝ ̷̢̛͘n̸̴̵̵̡̕̕͘͢͡v̷̸̸͘͘͘͡?͘҉̸̡ D-̶͜͡pv̴͏̸̵̸̨ ͜f͠k!͠** ****  
  
A searing pain jolts one Thomas Mason awake. That was, one doozy of a nightmare. So vivid. Yet so foggy. He rubs his eyes and glances around the room. It’s the same little basement he’s been sleeping in for a while now. Electronic lights blink in the darkness. Last thing he remembers before nodding off was ranting a little to his boss. Then he dozed off at the table.  
  
He looks around with little visible light, and sees he is very much not still on the table, but, lying on his side in his bed. Well, it’s not really a bed , but, eh. Close enough to one. He’s even been tucked in. It’s a little weird that his boss keeps doing all these nice things for him, but, it’s none of his business. He’s giving Tommy money, food, and shelter, guess the old Doc can tuck him into bed too if he wants.  
  
Tommy goes to check the clock on the desk. 3:45 am. Oh, good. He needs to be up and ready in fifteen minutes. At least he slept in his clothes, so he doesn’t need to get dressed.  
  
...Well actually, he’s been wearing this for a week technically. So. He sort of does?  
  
Does he care?  
  
Nah.  
  
Alright. Time to start the day. 


	2. Chapter 2

Work goes about as well as it could as they get the last part of the forest covered in the nodules, and then afterwards...   
  
“Okay, now try to keep your hand steady.” A redhead in flannel guides him.   
  
Tommy nods, eyes focusing on the target stuck to the totem pole across the yard. He holds the blade of the throwing knife between his pointer and thumb, ready to strike. There’s a slight breeze as he narrows his vision, and exhales. His arm thrusts the knife forward with a poised fling. It spins through the air, until-   
  
_ Thunk! _ __   
__   
It lands in one of the green rings, close to the edge of the paper. Hey, for a good front yard away, it’s not a bad throw! Especially for someone who only just yesterday was a stone statue of himself.   
  
Wendy agrees. “You’ve got good form, just need to get the strength behind the motions.”    
  
Tommy goes to pick up another knife, and flips it into the air, catching it by the handle again. Doc’s given him a metric ton of free-time after his job in the morning, and he’s not going to let it go to waste. He figures, learning how to throw knives might come in handy if Bill or some other entity tries to attack. That, and it’s just plain awesome looking.    
  
He kinda feels like Gambit from the X-Men, throwing these things around. Maybe, he could get some cool playing-card shaped throwing knives and have Wendy teach him to toss those around too? He’ll ask about it later.    
  
“So,” He asks, holding the knife by the blade as he’s about to throw it. “What all’d I miss while Davidin’ it up?”   
  
Wendy laughs a bit. “Well, BABBA came back for one night only, Soos got on Cash Wheel and won everyone trips to Disneyland, and they discovered life on Uranus.”   
  
_ Thunk! _ He gets a little closer to the center. Tommy grins as he turns to face her again.    
  
“Myanus, or Uranus?”   
  
It takes her a second, but the comedic timing absolutely kills her. She’s wheezing, clutching her stomach as she keels over. Tommy smiles brightly, getting another knife ready. He loves it when a joke goes off well.    
  
It’s then, as he’s about to throw the third one, the light bouncing off his face, Wendy notices something about him she didn’t before.   
  
“D-dude, are your eyes,  _ yellow _ ?”   
  
Tommy freezes. He’d been doing so well with not letting anyone see them. Dangit. Guess this was happening eventually. “They’re amber?”   
  
Wendy shakes her head as she starts getting a hold of herself. She wags her finger, standing up to get a better look at the irises in question. With no regard for personal space, her hands grab his jaw, and she shifts his head back and forth, making sure it wasn’t just the light hitting them weird. “No, they’re definitely this golden, yellow color. Yellow... eyes.”    
  
He winces as memories of the old elementary chant ‘Miss Abby-Normal’ and even adults calling him ‘That One Weird Kid’ pop back into his head.   
  
“...And?”    
  
She returns to a relaxed expression, and shrugs. “Oh, nothing. Just didn’t notice before.”    
  
Her hands are off his cheeks, and she crosses her arms. It’s quiet for a second, and he’s about to try and throw, when--   
  
“ARE YOU TWO PUTTING KNIFE HOLES IN THE DAMN TOTEM POLE?!”    
  
The window slams open, and Stan’s in his undershirt and boxers, red knit hat crooked on his head. He seems a little huffy to Tommy, but at least, not too terribly teed off. At least, not for Stan.   
  
Wendy wastes no time with her reply. “YEAH! THAT A PROBLEM?”   
  
It’s silent for a beat.    
  
“NAH.”   
  
The window shuts with the same quickness it opened. Wendy and Tommy look away from it, but then lock eyes. They exchange shrugs.    
  
Tommy stares down his target once more. “So you ain’t, weirded out?”   
  
“Why would I be? They’re eyes.”    
  
He slumps a little, unable to focus when this is on his mind. “Yeah, but, who do y’all know that has  _ yellow _ eyes?”   
  
Wendy adjusts her cap. “Well, I know this one guy? He’s kinda short and angry, but he seems like a really cool dude. Likes showing off and having fun.”    
  
Tommy’s eyebrow perks up. “Oh. What’s his name?”   
  
“Tommy.”    
  
He makes a face as he rolls his eyes, but then smiles. “I dunno about that guy. Sounds like a real jerkoff.”    
  
“Hey, I think he’s cool.” She watches him take aim again. “Besides, it’s kinda hard to hate someone after you save their life.”   
  
The center is in his sights. “Still, what kinda jerk gets himself petrified--”   
  
“w-whaAAAAAAAaAHHH **hHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAaHHHHHHHHHHH** !”   
  
He’s mid throw when a house-rocking, upset old man scream cuts out clear across the Oregon air. Crows caw out and fly away as the knife spirals forwards, out of Tommy’s control. It hits, something in a bush.   
  
“Ow! The heck?!”    
  
That’s Dipper.   
  
Great.   
  
Tommy and Wendy rush over to assess the damage. Luckily, the handle just bonked against his head. That’s good. At least it’s just whatever Stan’s yelling for they have to worry about, instead of a 13 year old with a stab wound.   
  
“ **EVERYONE, GIFT SHOP, ** ** _NOW!_ ** ”    
  



	3. Chapter 3

The suspects all stand in a line in the gift shop, as Stan, still in his underwear, paces back and forth in front of them like an angry tiger. His nostrils are flaring. Wonder if he found out someone dunked his slippers in the toilet by accident again?   
  
Dipper is shivering in anxiety. Mabel looks, mostly aloof. Melody and Soos are both standing at attention. Wendy isn’t  _ paying _ much attention. Tommy’s the only one with his hands in his pockets. No one knows what’s happening, except the interrogator himself.    
  
“So.” The old man growls. “I’m checking my hiding spots around the Shack, like I usually do in the morning, and guess what I find?”    
  
“A puppy? No-no, a  _ kitten _ ! A kitten-puppy?”   
“A robot that shoots lasers out it’s feet?”   
“Or it’s elbows?”   
“My ability to care?”   
“--I’M SORRY GRUNKLE STAN I DIDN’T KNOW WHERE ELSE TO PUT THE SOCK.”   
  
Everyone glances at Dipper. He looks like he’s about to dry-heave.   
  
“...No. What I find is six- _ hundred _ dollars, MISSING!”   
  
Tommy starts thinking. Always dangerous.   
  
“Now, honestly, I’m more impressed than anything. I mean, who tries to steal from a professional conman? Heck, since the Shack was left empty for a day, it might have been an  _ actual _ burglar instead’a one of you idiots. Who knows? But if any of ya know anything--”   
  
Tommy raises his hand. “I know somethin’.”    
  
It’s quiet. “You... do?”   
  
“Yeah.” Tommy says. “You gave it to me.”    
  
The entire rest of the row turn and whisper between themselves. Stan Pines, giving out  _ money _ ? That’s impossible! The man in question claps his hands and puts them together in front of his face, so that his fingertips are touching his nose. Closing his eyes, taking a deep breath in... As he goes to exhale, his eyes bug open with a pop. Quicker than any old man should be, he drags Tommy by the arm into the den, close to the table by the fishtank.   
  
He clutches the little idiot’s shoulders, digging his fingers in falcon-like, while the door is still swinging on its hinges. And, starts, chuckling? He starts chuckling cynically. With a hoarse rasp. “You’re kinda, new to this whole ‘lying’ thing, aintcha?”   
  
The events flew by so fast, Tommy’s still reeling. He pouts in his disorientation. “What?”   
  
“Look, kid, you’ve got some serious chutzpah, and I can respect that.” Stan loosens his viced hands, and pats a shoulder. “I’ll let this all go, since Ford really cares about ya, and you seem so clueless, if ya just tell me how you found it. What, lead ya to it, y’know? No mess. No fuss! Just a little exchange of magicians secrets, eh?”    
  
He smacks the back of his hand against Tommy’s stomach playfully. “I’ll even let ya keep the cash. This place can make that in a day or two, anyways.”   
  
Rage flashes over Tommy. Not because the old man’s calling him a thief. He’s stolen lots of things before. No. It’s because Tommy knows the truth. That Stan’s the one who pointed out the hiding spot in the first place! Tommy knows it. Tommy knows Stan knows it, and Tommy knows that Stan knows he knows it! What kind of sick game is this? What kind of prank…? “Are y’all goin’ senile? I told y’all, you  _ gave  _ it to me!”   
  
“You already used that line, Junior.” Stan’s face grows dark. “I’m giving you a one in a million chance here. I’ve done worse to people for way less.”    
  
“Well, maybe you should have a CAT scan done, you greasy old fogy! There’s obviously  _ somethin’ _ goin’ wrong in that big fat  _ stupid _ head!” Tommy bares his teeth as he digs the hole deeper for himself.    
  
Stan’s stunned for a second, his hands now behind his back. He stares blankly. This... is one hell of a punk you’ve brought home, Poindexter. Maybe he should learn some manners. It’s not nice to disrespect your elders. Especially when your elder is a sneaky, conniving old man who’s done time in Columbia. For crimes this snot-nosed punk couldn’t even  _ begin _ to imagine. Stan dips the bottle he’s hidden behind his back, to wet the dish towel he’s clasping.   
  
Before Tommy can comprehend what’s going on, an old rag is pressed up against his face, and he slips into a deep unconsciousness, blacking out.   
  
“Night-night, twerp.”    



	4. Chapter 4

  
The smell of bad soap and cheap resin greets his conscious mind.   
  
Tommy blinks awake, with a crust of drool at the corner of his mouth. Stupid old man and his stupid colorform. How long was he gone? Hopefully nothing more than a few hours. He tries to wipe the dried flakes off, but something stops him. The sluggish yank soon turns to panic, and he realizes he’s been tied down to a chair! Looking down at himself raises even more questions. There’s a blanket on his lap, but, what on Earth is he _ wearing _ ? Denim overalls? And a red and yellow striped shirt? It looks like something he wore back when he was 6! And what is going on with his gut?! He sucks in his stomach. The new belly bump doesn’t go back in with it. Okay. So that’s obviously a pillow or something. Where even _ is _ he?   
  
Glancing around the room, he sees the various fake cryptids and monsters he saw back when he first stepped foot into this town, in all their hokey glory. He’s in some sort of fenced-off area. There’s a spotlight above him, and to his dismay, a crowd of people led by Soos are coming straight in his direction.   
  
“I present to you, The Amazing Old Man Boy! An unstable rift in time caused a local young boy to rapidly age overnight! Be astounded, as he is both boy, and old man!”   
  
People pay for photos as several camera flashes blind Tommy. He winces. His teeth grinding in anger. The crowd moves on, but one member sticks behind. A familiar member. The red knitted hat, crooked smile and fat nose makes Tommy’s blood boil. He seethes as he struggles, trying to break free from his bonds.   
  
“That ‘old fogy’ thing you said gave me an idea, twerp. Hope you don’t mind.” A gruff voice says.   
  
Tommy balls his fists, eyes twitching in rage. “ ** _WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME, OLD MAN_ ** **?!** ”   
  
Stan almost seems excited the young punk asked. He reaches into his duster pocket, and pulls out a small mirror. Tommy sees his own reflection, and feels horror creep up his spine. He can’t tell if it’s a bald cap and wig, or if the old fogy went the whole nine yards, cutting up and dying his hair to look like an elderly combover. Tommy’s wearing a propeller cap, which has been threaded and tied around his chin as it’s too small for his head. There’s wrinkles and liver spots all over his face, probably all makeup. He hopes it’s all makeup.   
  
Stan laughs at Tommy’s pain. “Figured since you don’t like doing work all that much, and you didn’t wanna come clean about how exactly you stole from me, being an attraction would be the perfect fit for ya! This way, you can earn that cash back, and sit around like a useless lump at the same time!”   
  
“ ** _I’ll show you a lump!_ ** ” Tommy bites as he kicks and tries to move the chair he’s tied to. Turns out it’s a rocking chair, and it’s been nailed to the floor as Tommy tries to break free. He almost knocks the blanket onto the floor. Well, if it wasn’t velcroed to the seat of it. Stan chuckles at the attempt. At least the dumb little jerk makes funny faces when he’s mad. Tommy grimaces, and another camera flash goes off. Tommy’s polaroid from downstairs clicks in Stan’s hands. A picture slides out, it develops, and the photographer grins devilishly.   
  
“Oh, this’ll make a great addition to your lil’ corkboard!” He says as he glances the snapshot over. Taking out a pen, he writes a small caption at the bottom. “Dumb… idiot… thinks he can steal... from a... professional... conman. There! Ain’t that a lovely mug?”   
  
Stan holds the image next to his own face, almost beaming in glee. Tommy isn’t amused. Murder’s in his eyes as another familiar person barges in, and pushes past the crowd. Doc’s home for lunch. Ford gets to about where Stan is, until he has to stop a laugh from looking over Tommy.   
  
“Pfffb-- Stanley, let him go.” Ford pleads with a small smile as he massages his temples.   
  
Stan clicks his tongue. “Sure, you got the 900 to bail ‘im out?”   
  
“ _ NINE _ HUNDRED?!” Tommy cries out. “But I only took six!”   
  
A snap into a finger gun. “Ah HA! So you ADMIT to snatching the cash!”   
  
“I _ admit _ to you showin’ me where the daggum duffle bag was hidden, an’ you tellin’ me to take ‘as much as I thought I needed’, you sleazeball!” Tommy shouts in retaliation.   
  
Stan gives a dismissive wave of the hand. “Yeah, yeah. Can it. Anyways, bumped it up to nine for the mental anguish ya put me through! Honestly, I should call the cops and have ya locked away for life, you terror! Plus, y’know, interest exists buckko.”  
  
Ford frowns. “That’s hardly fair--”  
  
“The WORLD ain’t fair, Sixer!” Stan belts out. “Besides, he’s already earned twenty from photos alone. At this rate, he’ll be out in August!”   
  
August?! But, his plans! To earn money playing music in the park! Get a phone! Maybe get one for Doc so they can both get rid of the dumb pagers! Tommy shoots Ford a pleading look.   
  
He can’t ignore that face, despite how goofily the bearer may be dressed. Ford drags his brother away by the arm, just far enough that Tommy’s out of earshot.  
  
They’re whispering in a corner, peeking over at him every now and again. Great. Like that doesn’t kickstart his paranoia into overdrive. Suddenly, however, he sees Wendy come through the door, whistling nonchalantly. She manages to pretend to sweep the floor long enough to sneak by the two murmuring twins, and get close to the captive. She leans over to whisper to him.  
  
“I was wondering where you got all that cash, but I never thought…”   
  
Tommy pouts. “I didn’t steal anythin’!” He hissed through his teeth.  
  
“Woah, woah! I believe you!”   
  
She… does?  
  
“...Look, there’s some stuff the town’s not allowed to talk about, but... “ Wendy trails off, leaning on the broom. “Let’s just say, no one in this house would be surprised if Stan’s forgetting things.”  
  
“Yeah dude.” Soos walks up, munching a granola bar. “Sure, Mr. Pines hardly ever gives out anything to anyone, and I once had to help him rob a charity for orphaned baby seals before, but eh, weirder things have happened.”   
  
Tommy looks up at his two friends with a smile. It’s nice to have people who don’t automatically assume the worst of you. They do, have to hold back some laughs after looking at him for too long though. Yeah, yuk it up. It’s hilarious, isn’t it?   
  
“W-wait, dudes, I think the hat--”  
  
Soos lifts the propeller beanie slightly, and flicks on the motor. The small propeller starts spinning like a fan, causing Soos and Wendy to buckle in an uproar of dinosaur screeches at the sheer ridiculousness. Yeah, that’s really making him feel better about this. Could be worse, though. Tommy could be having his twin brother question his grip on his own memory.   
  
Like Stan is right now.  
  
“WHAT?!”  
  
Ford hushes him. “Yes, I know! How dare I insinuate your memory is anything less than perfect! But, can you please at least _try_ to listen?”   
  
Stan scowls as he crosses his arms, but lets his brother continue.  
  
“It’s been roughly a year, and no symptoms have popped up. I get that. That still doesn’t mean they’re going to be completely _nonexistent_.” Ford argues. “Maybe you did give him the money, and you just forgot?”  
  
“Ford, not only do I remember the full name of high-school bully that gave you the most flack --Boris Fitzgerald Crampelter, by the way-- I can even tell you the total gross income of this ol’ Shack! If my memory’s slipping, it’s not on _this_!”   
  
“You only remember his full name because the initials can be made into several dirty phrases…” Ford sighs. “But, alright. Fine. How about...?”   
  
He huddles Stan closer to him. “Instead of him sitting around all sad and useless, why not have him repay you in _labor_? Fetching you cold drinks or things from the store, cleaning the drain in the sink and the toilet, you name it. That way, he can still assist me in the mornings, and pay off what he owes you!”   
  
Stan rustles the thought in his head as Ford sweats a bit. Thomas isn’t going to be happy with this situation one ounce, but, Ford _cannot_ risk people finding out Bill’s back. He can see right through this trickery, Cipher. You’ll not split apart this house with your wily gambit! You may have a grip on Thomas’ mind, but Ford has something too! Years of experience in brotherly compromising with the world’s greatest hero and conman. Stan knows this is a win-win situation that still has Tommy paying him back in some fashion. He’d be a fool not to take it. Haha! Cipher, your plans for creating a social rift have been diminished exponentially! Take that!  
  
“You’re not just trying to get the punk out of taking his lumps, are ya Sixer?” Stan’s eyebrow crooks.  
  
“Oh, no! Of course not!” Ford lies. “If he did steal the money, he would be completely out of line for doing so! You’d have every right to be this angry at him.”   
  
Stan smirks like a criminal mastermind. “Then, prove it. Whole rest of the day, you’re not allowed to say one word to the punk, _unless_ it’s to rag on him. No ‘Well Done, Thomas!’ or anything gushy like that.”  
  
Ugh, you conniving-- No no, Stanford. Calm your temper. It is only fair Stan asks for something in return. Remember, you’re doing this for Thomas and the safety of the universe. It’ll just be a day. You can handle that. “Alright. I settle to your terms.”  
  
“And just to make sure you don’t, you’re gonna spend the whole day with me, too. That alright?”  
  
Drat. “Yes. That’s fine.”   
  
“--And I get the rest of your leftover tuna melt from when we stopped for lunch yesterday.”   
  
“Not a chance in hell.”  
  
Stan warmly chuckles. “Worth a shot.” 


	5. Chapter 5

“Exchuuuse me, towel boy!”    
  
Stan calls out from his seat in his recliner, as his brother sits close by on the skull. About three hours had passed, and the pair of them were silently watching some old period drama. Ford shakes his head as Tommy marches into the room, looking miserable.   
  
He’s no longer wearing the Amazing Old Man Boy outfit, but he’s back in some of his tattered old clothes (Tommy refuses to wear the hand-me-downs again and Stan’s confiscated all his good duds), a black apron, and a bandana tied around his head to keep his hair out of his eyes. Because he sweat out all his hair gel when Stan put the bald cap on, poor Tommy’s locks were now frizzing out wildly. Ugh. Darn his natural hair texture and darn his mom for passing it on to him. He feels like a used cotton ball.    
  
“What’ll it be you slimy sonova--”   
  
Stan tisks him. “Now, is that any way to talk to your new boss?”   
  
Does he, really want him to do the stupid, cutesy voice? Ugh. Fine.    
  
“ _ Well golly, shucks, an’ sake’s alive, Mister Stan! _ ” Tommy puts on an obviously fake upbeat cheerieness with a smile, placing a fist on his hip and squishing his cheek with his pointer finger. His leg even kicks out cutely. “ _ Gosh, thank you so much fer takin’ me in off the streets even though I’m such an ungrateful brat! What do y’all need me t’do for yer lil’ ol’ self? It’s only fair that I repay yer warm-hearted kindness! _ ”    
  
“That’s more like it!” Stan chuckles as he kicks up the footrest, reclining in his seat. “Eh, you finished cleaning the gutters outside?”   
  
“ _ Spick an’ spiffy as a whistle! _ ”    
  
“And the toilets?”   
  
“ _ I don’t think you’ll find cleaner in any high-falutin manor! _ ”   
  
“And my CPAP?”   
  
“ _ Filled an’ ready for yer next trip to Slumbersville! _ ”   
  
He nods approvingly. “Y’know, I could get used to this. Whadya think, Sixer?”   
  
Ford glares daggers at Stan. He knows exactly what his brother’s doing. “I don’t have an opinion on the matter.”    
  
“Oh c’mon!” Stan slaps him upside the arm a little, as if trying to coax words out. “Don’tcha think the brat’s been doing a good job? Wouldn’t ya like to tell him how good he’s doing?”   
  
Tommy fidgets with his hands. That  _ would _ be pretty swell. Ever since he started doing all these chores for Stan, Doc’s been really distant. No happy smiles and soft ruffling of hair, no chipper declarations of how clever and hardworking he is, or anything in that ballpark. Yeah, it’s stupid and dumb and it  _ totally  _ gets on Tommy’s nerves, but it was, still a little nice. He hasn’t heard someone say that and, maybe kinda sorta  _ actually  _ mean it like Doc does, in a long time…    
  
Ford gives him a cold shoulder.    
  
Tommy’s heart aches as he feels his blood chill. He doesn’t care what either of these ancient dingbats think, anyhow! So what if Doc’s not happy with him?! So what if he thinks he could be doing better even though he’s been working his best?! He doesn’t care! He doesn’t give two shakes of a lamb’s tail! Screw both of them! Screw them to heck!    
  
Stan laughs, seeing Tommy’s obviously upset reaction. “Alright, guess that’s that!”   
  
Cool! Whatever. He doesn’t care.   
  
“Say, since you’re not doing anything, couldja go fetch me a soda from the vending machine outside? Oh, and anything for you, Poindexter?”   
  
He’s still turned away. “ _ No _ .”    
  
Tommy shoves his fists into his pockets as he crosses the den. As he passes Ford, he feels the old man’s eyes look down at him with an emotion that could easily be confused with disgust. His body tenses up as he looks away from Doc, scurrying faster to his destination. Poor Tommy doesn’t know Ford was looking at him in a silent attempt to apologize, and doesn’t hear the old fool’s heart break a little at the fearful reaction.    
  
The ‘Employees Only’ door swings as he passes through it, and once again, Wendy’s working the counter. Tommy rubs his eyes as he passes through the gift shop. No, he wasn’t crying! It was sweat! Sweat from all the cleaning! He’s got toilet cleaner in his eye!   
  
Wendy notices. “Hey, you feeling okay?”   
  
“--WHAT?! YOU WANNA GO TOO? YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH ME?!”    
  
The shouting shocks her. He sees the concern on her face, and calms down a bit. “...I mean, yeah. I’m fine.”   
  
Tommy gets closer to the counter. “Getting Stan a soda?” She asks.    
  
“Yeah.”    
  
Wendy shifts a little, and grabs his shoulder to stop him. “Okay. This might sound weird but, seeing you just made me think of a way you could, get back at him a little.”   
  
Tommy likes the sound of that. He leans in so she doesn’t have to speak as loud.    
  
“So, you take the soda back in, and you ask him if he wants it on ice. Of course, him being Stan, he’s gonna say yes.” She says in a hushed voice. “That’s when you spike it.”   
  
“With, like what, hot sauce?” Tommy pulls out a bottle he always has on his person. Butt-Burnin’ Cajun Fire. One of the spiciest fermented sauces on the market. Just a few scovilles shy of making the top five.    
  
“...You carry hot sauce on you all the time?”   
  
“Yeah, doesn’t everyone? Goes good on squirrel brains.”    
  
Wendy ignores that comment and corrals the conversation back. “No. He’ll notice that immediately. You gotta be sneaky about this. You use this old cup he stole from the hospital. White with a straw, and his favorite. Then, you use Mabel Juice ice cubes.”   
  
“Y’all mean those ones with the glitter and plastic dinosaurs in them everyone tells me to avoid?”   
  
She nods seriously. “It’ll be a slow burn, but once it hits him, it’ll hit him hard.”    
  
Tommy looks slightly intimidated by this information as he slips the hot sauce back into his pocket.    
  
“How do you, know all this?”   
  
“You think this is the first time Stan’s pulled this on someone because they stole something?” Wendy looks at him with a set of exhausted eyes. “Hell, how do you think I got stuck working here in the first place?”   
  
Tommy blinks with a newfound respect, and goes to get the soda. He exchanges waves with Melody as she picks up some litter around the yard. Stan didn’t give him any money to put in the machine, but that’s fair, he knows how to get cans for free. Just, a few elbow-knocks on the front, little kick by the bottom, two presses of the coin return, and…   
  
_ Ka _ - _ Thunk! _ A can drops from the machine. Woah, hey! It’s actually two! Doc didn’t ask for one, and he doesn’t want the extra. So, as he passes by Wendy, he hands the spare to her. She thanks him with a tip of her hat.    
  
Back in the den, he goes to hand it to Stan mindlessly. Suddenly, he remembers what Wendy said.    
  
“Wait!”   
  
Everyone in the room pauses, Stan stops mid-reach.   
  
“W- _ well, Gracious me! Wouldn’t a sweet feller like you prefer this in a glass, maybe with some ice? It’s awfully hot out, an’ this lil’ can won’t stay cold fer long… _ ”   
  
Surprisingly, Stan doesn’t see through the masquerade. “Oh, smart thinking there Junior. Yeah, I would. Hop to it.”    
  
Tommy smiles politely and hi-tails it into the kitchen. Phew. Can’t believe that panned out. Wendy must really know what she’s talking about, huh? He finds the mug alright, and sets it on the counter with the cola. He pops open the icebox, and…   
  
There’s no more Mabel Juice ice cubes. Dangnabbit! Consarnit all to heck! Mabel must’ve used the last ones in her morning drink and forgot to refill the tray! Now how is he supposed to get back at this old man for his sick gag?    
  
Feeling a little peckish, he opens up the fridge for a small bite to eat, when he sees a small blue cooler sitting on the shelf. Doc’s name is written on the top of it. Was this like, some lunch he forgot to bring with him? He opens it up hoping to steal the food inside, and in neat little rows on a metal stand, are a bunch of test-tubes. Each one filled with a strange green liquid. One that’s already had a bit used slides out of the holder. Tommy would say it’s about... five-sixths full? The tube gets tilted back and forth, and the goo inside is kinda thick? He uncorks it, and wafts the smell.    
  
It’s… sweet. Sweet and a little familiar. Is this the same stuff that Doc put in that first cup of weird tea? He had a second one this morning, but there was no hint of maple syrup that time…    
  
This had to be the bone juice.    
  
“What’s taking so long?!   
  
“ _ Oh, just, havin’ a hard time finding the perfect cup! _ ” Tommy responds, as he turns back to the sap.   
  
A wicked thought makes him grin.   
  
Stan is a bit of a tightwad, isn’t he? A real stiff hardball. Maybe this’ll loosen those creaky, rusty joints up. Make him sing a different tune. One that’s a bit less, crotchety. He pours it into the cup, until about an eighth of the tube is left, and sticks it back in the fridge. Then the soda cracks open, and he mixes it in as well as he can. It surprisingly dissolves like a dream, and is nearly invisible save for some darker swirls of pink in the fizzy liquid. Some ice cubes drop in with satisfying  _ plops _ , and it’s all ready to go.    
  
Windbag pranked Tommy first anyway. What, with that whole con of giving him that money while no-one else was watching, and then acting like Tommy stole it out from under him and making a big fuss just so he could have his own little errand boy? Hell, the old fogy probably planned the whole thing with the witch too. Tommy wouldn’t doubt it with how sneaky he is. All just to make him suffer. Right after he’d gotten his hopes up that he’d have some free time! He feels justified in this. It’s only fair he pranks Stan in turn. Tommy’s taken enough of this kind of stuff from his big brother when he was a kid, didn’t need some smelly grandpa pushing him around like that as an adult.   
  
Cheerfully, he heads back into the den, and hands Stan the drink. He sweetly holds his hands as he backs up into the entryway, making himself look as innocent as possible. Bottoms up, you smelly old fossil.    
  
Stan smiles back, unaware. “Thanks, buckko.”   
  
He takes a sip through the straw, and notices something, off. He swishes the flavor in his mouth, before swallowing. A look at the mug, and then a look at Tommy.    
  
“Hey, Ford.” Stan says, gaze not leaving the culprit. “Try this for me, wouldja?”   
  
Tommy’s body seizes up as Ford doesn’t even look at the mug when the straw hits his lips. Casually, he takes a sip and swallows it down. Wait, no. Doc isn’t supposed to drink that!    
  
Ford instantly recognizes the flavor. Calmly and with a nice smile, he looks over at the assistant. “Thomas?”   
  
“Y-yeah, Doc?”   
  
“How much did you put in?”   
  
“...A lot.”    
  
“Of course. Can you give me a rough estimate?”    
  
He juggles his hands. “Uhh, most of one tube?”    
  
“Hm.”    
  
Ford gets up off the skull, and strides over to his ward. Gently, he grabs the sides of Tommy’s arms. Then, the collar of his shirt. Now not so gently. He’s being lifted up to eye level by a very manic looking Ford Pines, who starts shaking him back and forth like a rag doll.   
  
“--AND WHAT MADE YOU THINK THAT WAS AN OKAY THING TO DO?!”    
  
Tommy’s mouth is open in an awkward smile, his heart racing a mile a minute as his head wags back and forth cartoonishly. He tries to find words, but none form in his throat. Stan’s got a huge toothy grin on his face, entertained by how livid his brother is.    
  
“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU’VE DONE?! I HAVEN’T YET TESTED THAT ON HUMANS IN EXCESSIVE AMOUNTS! ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN! OUR BONES COULD TURN TO PASTE! OR, THEY GET SO BRITTLE, THEY SNAP LIKE TWIGS UNDER EARTH’S GRAVITY! WE COULD DIE AT ANY SECOND AND--”    
  
Out of seemingly nowhere, Stan yelps out as he throws his glasses across the room, rubbing his eyes furiously. Ford more or less drops Tommy back on the ground and rushes over to his brother’s aid. He hovers his hands around him worryingly, unsure of how to help.   
  
“Stanley, are you okay?” Ford’s voice cracks, but only slightly.   
  
Stan shoos his fretting twin away. “Yeah, I’m fine! Stupid things just started giving me a headache…”   
  
Wait.    
  
Stan removes his hand from his face, and sees his brother, clearly. Stan, a man with known issues with sight, can see his brother, in front of his face, with no vision problems at all.    
  
“Forrrrrd… why are my eyes,  _ good _ again?”   
  
He’s about to get an answer, when Stan sees the roots of Ford’s hair start to go from grey, to a youthful brown. Ford’s able to feel it, as he touches the top of his head in befuddlement. He finds a mirror on the wall to observe the slight change.    
  
Both twins then look at Tommy with blank, bug-eyed expressions.    
  
He gulps.   
  
You’ve done it now, Teej.   



	6. Chapter 6

Ford’s pacing back and forth wildly as Tommy and Stan sit on the small steps that separate the entryway and the den. The glasses that were thrown across the room now being messed with in their owner’s hands.   
  
“I can’t believe it! The locals were right! The sap, it really does reverse the aging process!”   
  
Stan cleans out his ear with a pinky, the cup right next to his legs. His brother raves on about the potential and practical uses of the sap, how it could extend the human lifespan and, possibly keep death out of the realm of possibility! Eye problems solved by turning back the clock! Memories regained from refreshing the brain! No more feeling like life has already passed you by! This was phenomenal! Truly outstanding!   
  
He looks to Tommy. “And, it’s all thanks to--”   
  
This gets Ford a contempt leer from his brother. Their deal is still on, even if this weird magic thing’s occuring.   
  
He pauses. “It’s… well, it’s a complete accident! A, total fluke how this got discovered!”   
  
The fluke responsible scrunches up into a ball.   
  
“Not to say that, mistakes are inherently _ bad _\--”  
  
Renewed hazel eyes glare harder.   
  
“But this wasn’t _ good _ of you either, Thomas, and--”   
  
Black frizzy hair gets curled around a finger.   
  
A frustrated groan of despair leaves Ford’s lips. There’s no way to please both parties in this, is there? Stan’s upset at Tommy, Tommy’s upset at Stan, and both are stubborn as all hell. The worst part for Ford is that he _ knows _ both sides. Stan’s upset about the money, he gets that. He knows why Stan is like that about money in the first place. Yet he also understands Tommy’s viewpoint. He thinks Stan gave him that cash, and is probably very confused and upset as to why he’s acting so spiteful, despite seeming so nice earlier this month.   
  
Bill _ would _ do this to him. Awkward social situations are Ford’s own personal hell. The jerk probably just wants to watch him squirm and flounder, like a helpless worm on the sidewalk after a morning rain. The sun’s coming out soon. To cook him alive…   
  
He itches the top of his head. “Regardless of how it happened, we should both be fine. Unless there’s any _ more _ changes--”   
  
Suddenly, Stan cups his ear and clenches his jaw in pain. Stupid hearing aid! It’s ripped out and thrown to the ground. “GAH! _ Yeesh _ , that was loud!”   
  
“Okay. So now we might be in trouble.” Ford deadpans. A bit more of his hair thickens back to youth as he darts between them to get a chalkboard from another room. Leaving Tommy and Stan all alone.   
  
They shuffle around silently, the air between them hot with rage. The glasses are hung around the collar of a greasy tank top.   
  
“You are a real pain in the backside, you know that kid?” Stan complains. “You coulda just carried on, _ not _ messing with weirdness, but here we are.”   
  
Tommy scoffs. “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? A complacent little worker who’s desperate to please and doesn’t question authority. You big honcho types are all alike.”   
  
“...What?”   
  
“Don’t give me that!” He glares at him with piercing eyes. “Yer just some dusty ol’ fuddy-duddy! Who gets his kicks bossin’ other people around, or makin’ em feel like dirt if they don’t whistle the right tune!”   
  
Stan’s silent, but wide-eyed.   
  
“Prolly ‘cause nothin’ ‘cept yer _ mouth _ works anymore--”   
  
“--I’M BACK, PARDON ME!”   
  
Ford cuts through the two, wheeling a large green board down the steps. He sets it up in front of them, Stan snatching his hearing aid before his brother stomps all over it. Ford then takes out a bit of chalk, scribbling out numbers and things neither person sitting down could make heads or tails of.   
  
“Taking the amount we ingested into account, our own metabolisms, how quickly the effects took place, and the pace at which the changes are appearing…”   
  
That is, a lot of math. It’s making Tommy wish he paid more attention in class. The numbers swirl around, and it’s hard to tell 2’s from 7’s and 5’s from 3’s…   
  
The nub of chalk stops etching. “Hm. Actually, did the math wrong in my head earlier. As long as we don’t drink anymore, we should only hit our thir--”   
  
Stan’s absentmindedly mid-sip. Half the drink is gone. “Uh…”   
  
“OKAY, GIVE ME THAT!”   
  
Ford takes off the lid and slams down the rest, ice-cubes spilling to the floor. He wipes his mouth with his jacket sleeve, wild-eyed and nostrils flaring. “Now we’re _ both _ slowly dying!”   
  
“WHAT?!” Stan shouts. “YOU KEPT SAYING IT WAS ‘SOMETHING OUTSTANDING’ AND THAT WE’D BE FINE! IF IT’S TOXIC WHY’D YOU DRINK IT?!”   
  
“BECAUSE I’M NOT LETTING MY BROTHER REGRESS INTO A FETUS ALONE!”   
  
Little clicks against the board from angry tapping of chalk. “With _ this _ much in our systems, the both of us are going to steadily de-age into nothingness, _ unless _ we all work _ together _ to prevent that!”   
  
His brother bolts up from his seat in outrage. “Are you seriously turning a _ life and death _ situation into a _ bonding moment _ ?!”   
  
“ _ Yes. _ ” Ford says, resolute. “ _ Yes, I most certainly am. _ ”   
  
The assistant’s staring off into space, as he’s been doing since hearing the words ‘slowly dying’. Doc, can’t die? No, that… that guy had important stuff to do still. Like, the triangle’s still out there and, if he dies… I mean, Tommy can _ completely _ take Bill on by himself of course and doesn’t _ need _ any help, but… Doc is still, nice to be around. Plus the old man doesn’t deserve to suffer for Tommy’s mistakes. Obviously. That’s a complete given. Then there's the fact Doc… seems to _ understand _ Tommy’s muddled and troubled frame of mind. Or at least, he’s trying to. It’s, a nice effort, either way, and--   
  
“Hey, Space Cadet. Need ya back on Earth.”   
  
Stan delivers a solid thwack to the back of Tommy’s head.   
  
Unfortunately, this is tantamount to hitting a hornet nest with a spiked baseball bat, while wearing a giant ‘Sting Me’ sign.   
  
Tommy bolts to his feet in a rage. Mind still fuzzy, not sure what day it is and where he's at. His first sight is Stan. Red. Tommy instantly slugs him in the gut, yelling.   
  
Stan, hardly feels anything. Sure he backs away a little, and the impact is a tad harsh, but it’s… a pretty weak punch. Like if Dipper threw a baseball into his stomach.   
  
He has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. “Wow, you… you really are all bark and no bite, aren’t ya?”   
  
Tommy gnashes his teeth. With feral temper and boiling ferocity, he charges at Stan with his fingers pointed like claws, hoping to scratch his eyes out.   
  
Well, he would be doing this, if Ford wasn’t holding him up by the back of his shirt like an angry cat. He flails in the air, unaware of the development. Out of his mouth comes a guttural shriek of primordial ire.   
  
“I _ just _ said we need to work together, _ Stanley _ !” Ford complains.   
  
Stan crosses his arms. “Like we need the punk to fix this! Little horror’ll just weigh us down, get in the way…”   
  
Ford hangs Tommy on the coat rack by the back of his shirt. He’s simmering and tense, but no longer kicking. “You know, in a tight pinch, Thomas is actually very resourc--”   
  
An irate look from Stan.   
  
“Fine!” Ford says. “Then let's put it in a way that appeals to you! He _ made _ this mess, correct?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Then, he should be the one to help clean it up, right?”   
  
He gestures at Tommy, who’s resigned himself to his fate at this point.   
  
Stan furrows his brow, tapping his foot. The punk did muddle it all up in the first place… “Well, he’s doing most of the legwork, then! You and me’ll just be going along with him to supervi--”   
  
Suddenly, his mouth tingles, and he has to hold it closed with his hand. In fear of something spilling out.   
  
Stan gives his brother a slightly panicked look, and he sees the hair, from the stripe of grey down on Ford’s head, is now even more brown.   
  
Ford sighs. “Your teeth grew back, didn’t they?” He asks, dryly.   
  
Stan nods, scrunching his shoulders.   
  
His brother goes to get a glass of water for him.   
  
The cup is held in front of his face, and Stanley Pines, always a man of the utmost tact and grace, opens up and lets the dentures fall from his mouth haphazardly, all slimy and covered in spit. He then licks his renewed teeth in a mix of curiosity and just plain being weirded out. The ability to _ feel _ the roots of his chompers embedded in his gums again is… strange.   
  
Tommy sticks his tongue out in disgust.   
  
Ford has to stare at the cup for a second, and then back at his brother. “...Thank you for that, Stanley. I can always count on you.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Put your back into it!”  
  
Tommy’s behind the pair a few feet as he carries the alchemy bag in one hand, and a duffle bag full of heavy tech over his shoulder. Stupid Stan. Stupid Doc. Stupid body with stupid stubby legs that can’t keep up. Stupid heavy crud he has to carry. When they were still setting up nodules, Doc never made him tote around this much stuff. Always split the load evenly. Guess Tommy, does kind of feel he deserves his for screwing up so bad, but he’s not going to let _ Stan _ know that. Guy like that preys on weakness, points and laughs at it. Just like Tommy’s big brother. Well. One of them. Doesn’t help Doc’s been acting like the other.   
  
Up ahead, Stan turns back to Ford, speaking so Tommy can’t hear.   
  
“Kid sure does, grumble to himself a lot.” Stan notes. “By the way, when I was shoving him into that costume, he sorta had a black crop top on? Looked like Mabel’s handiwork. Any reason for that? Does he have a bad tattoo he likes hiding, or…?”   
  
Ford leers at Stan. “Were you not paying attention during dinner on the first night? He came out to everyone at the table, albeit blearily...”   
  
“Came out of what?”   
  
Ford pinches the bridge of his nose. The crow’s feet around his eyes are already starting to wain as now the roots of Stan’s hair turn brown again. Instead of just about to hit sixty, they look like they’re in their late forties.   
  
“This right here? This is why everyone, myself included, thinks you just gave him the money and forgot, Stanley.”   
  
He bristles at that. “So I wasn’t paying attention. Big deal! Who cares if he’s gay or trans or whatever! You’re ace, I’m bi, pretty sure the kids aren’t straight. Doesn’t make the guy any less of a low-down thieving punk.”   
  
Stan’s laugh lines get smaller and less noticeable as they continue on.   
  
Ford shakes his head, and laughs very slightly. “You know Stanley, he is a fair bit like _ another _ thieving punk I used to hang around with as a child…”   
  
“Who?” Stan asks tensely, raising an eyebrow.   
  
“...Really? You don’t see it?”   
  
“See what?”   
  
Ford stops and looks behind him, and urges Stan to as well. Tommy’s gotten his leg caught in some foliage and was trying to kick it, grunting and swearing. Once detangled, he then stomps on it in his anger, telling it to ‘keep it’s stinkin’ paws off’. Which is funny, as everyone knows, plants don’t have paws. They have leaves Tommy. You doof.   
  
“He doesn’t remind you of anyone? Anyone at all?”   
  
Stan squints. “The Valentino kid?”   
  
“No!” Ugh. “Nevermind, Stanley.”   
  
They all press onwards, and it’s silent for a long while, until Stan realizes something slightly important. Just a little. Tad bit. Not like lives are on the line or anything. He leans in to whisper once more.   
  
“So, uh, why’re we out in the woods again?”  
  
Ford rolls his eyes at his brother proving his point, but answers. “Because we need to find a certain _ actual _ age-related fountain that exists out here. I discovered and detailed it in Journal 2. It’s known locally as the ‘Fountain of Senectitude’, and the effects are quite potent. Just one drop can age something ten years!”   
  
“And, how did you find this out?”   
  
Ford rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh, wanted to see if I could use it to get a well-aged brandy, without having to pay ludicrous amounts…”   
  
They both find themselves with a few less aches and pains as Stan sighs with a chortle. That’s a fun word. Chortle. “And how’d that turn out for ya?”   
  
“... The spirit spoiled somehow and became a noxious sludge. It was one of the worst things I had ever tasted in my life.”   
  
Stan nods sarcastically. Yup. That’s about on par with Ford’s usual fair when it came to things he’d put in his dumb journal.   
  
A little more walking and Ford darts ahead, bending some brush back, and… “It’s still here! Yes!”   
  
Stan hurries up and follows him, in just enough time to let a bent-back branch smack Tommy right in the face. The victim grunts in disdain as he lands flat on his rear. Stupid old man and his stupid--   
  
“Whoops, sorry Squirt.”   
  
A hand offers to… help Tommy up? He goes to reach it, when he stops. The old fart’s already tried to pawn off help before and made Tommy suffer for it. Why should he trust him now?   
  
Tommy bats the hand away. “I’m fine! I can make it on my own! I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!”   
  
Stan’s initial reaction to the refusal is gritted teeth, but once he hears those words exit Tommy’s mouth…   
  
It’s like he’s seen a ghost.   
  
Tommy dusts himself off angrily, grabbing his dropped equipment. All the while, he’s completely oblivious to the stunned horror on Stan’s youthening face. The haunted look darts to anger in a flash as Stan crosses his arms and turns away.   
  
“Yeah, well, dumb punk like you should learn t’just take help when it’s offered, ‘steada just runnin’ ya mouth off like a moron.”   
  
Tommy snarls, stiffening his body up. “Yeah, well, maybe yer help’s the last thing I need!”   
  
They’re about to throw punches when they hear Ford shriek out in despair.   
  
“No! NO!”  
  
Both of their heads swivel around to the fountain, which is oddly shaped like an ordinary park fountain in the middle of the woods, and Ford leaning over it in emotional agony.  
  
There’s no water flowing out.   
  
A six fingered hand dunks into the basin, and before Stan even has a moment to panic over his dumb genius brother’s recklessness, a grainy, white, salty sand pours out of Ford’s grasp.   
  
“I-it’s dried up! The fountain got so old it dried itself up! I… I can’t believe it!”   
  
“Great,” Stan gnashes bitterly, “guess we’ll have to figure out some other--”   
  
Ford slams his fists down on the stone. Several times. “There’s no other way! Stanley, we’re…”   
  
He clasps the sides of the basin, attempting to shake it and grasping it tightly, clenching his teeth. Stanford doesn’t even need to see his reflection to know he’s getting down into his early forties and late thirties. The grey stripe fades from his hair, and instead of fluffing up like it usually does, it now droops down. Tommy can see the effects on Stan too, his mane fully brown again, and even getting a little longer.   
  
Stan runs his hands through it as he takes off his hat, stunned into silence. He holds a lock in front of his face in an internal denial. His eyes meet Ford’s.   
  
Things just got a bit more serious.   
  
Until the third party speaks up. Tommy’s glance darts between the two, and he coughs a little, before saying, “Uh, not to be an optimist, but… ain’t alchemy or whatever a thing? Can’tcha just make a potion or somethin’ that’ll reverse the effects?”   
  
Ford does an over-exaggerated sigh as grips his hair and shakes his head. “Thomas, you _ naive _ \--” A thought pops into his head, and his whole demeanor changes to something more relaxed. “--little genius.”   
  
“Hey! What’d I say--”   
  
Stan is wholly ignored by his brother, Ford rushing up to Tommy, holding the ward’s shoulders in elation. “In Journal One, I made a note of a potion recipe given to me by a witch for a ‘Fix-It’ Elixir that… just might work! Sure, we’d need some rarer ingredients that I don’t keep stocked, but I know where they are in the forest, and--”   
  
He shakes him a little, a wide grin on his face. “This is marvelous, Thomas! Your quick-thinking saved us from my horrid miscalculation! Thank you so much!”   
  
As Tommy’s eyes sparkle in delight, a hand claws the collar of his shirt, and pulls him away from Ford in a quick grab. The equipment falls to the ground as he’s hoisted up. An angry brow meets Tommy’s shocked one, and Stan’s breath is as hot and reeking as it is enraged.   
  
“You think that changes anything?! Oh look, an _ idea _ ! Too bad we’re still slowly dying! Why don’t ya actually _ do _ something for once!”   
  
He throws him to the ground. Tommy tries to get back to his feet, but the way he fell made it hard to do much more than stumble backwards and trip again over the equipment. The exchange gets Ford equally irate as his brother.   
  
“Stanley, what on Earth has gotten into you?!” He asks, anger behind his face.  
  
“Me?! What’s gotten into YOU?!” Stan argues. “Ever since you brought that dumb kid home, he’s all you’ve been talking about!”   
  
Tommy fidgets with the apron he’s still wearing. “Actually, I’m twenny-three--”   
  
“CAN IT!” He turns back to Ford. “He was the only topic you even cared about on the whole stinkin’ road trip! ‘Oh, I wonder how _ Thomas _ is doing? Gee, hope I didn't _ overload _ him with too much _ woOork _ ! Did you know he can already tell the difference between a _ wood _ sprite and a _ cave _ one? Such a _ proOodigeeey _ !’ Ugh!” 

Stan’s voice exits the mocking tone as he slams his foot down, snarling. “I am so _sick_ of it, Sixer!”   
  
Ford’s taken aback, but then steels himself against his brother. “W-well, maybe _I’m_ sick of your bitter attitude! I understand, money’s a big thing for you, but honestly Stanley! The embarrassment you put Thomas through by making him an attraction, how Dipper told me you had them all lined up for an _interrogation_ of all things! The constant berating, making me withhold affection, how you’ve been _so_ _certain_ he’s a thief even though there’s been a _perfectly logical explanation _as to why the money ended up in his hands--”  
  
“Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it Ford.”  
  
“I need to say it! Stanley Pines, you have been acting a _little _like Pa!”  
  
Stan’s face gets slapped with a look of utter and complete betrayal, before turning red as death. With fist clenched, he charges Ford, screaming bloody murder.  
  
A full-on fight breaks out, the both of them yelling at each other, throwing fists and clashing heads the both of them trying to ignore how their younger faces currently remind the other of a sore memory of a similar fight, as Tommy helplessly watches from the sidelines. Seems this whole thing is only bringing up bad memories for everyone. With Tommy, it’s how his own brothers used to fight at family gatherings. One would say something to anger the other, and it’d just spiral out of control until it turned into an angry fistfight. Their whole family got banned from nearly every restaurant in New Orleans for Bubba and Dirk’s outbursts.   
  
Sometimes, that same anger was directed at a young Tommy back when they still lived at home…   
  
He backs away from their fighting, his instincts kicking in. If he’s not around them, they can’t hurt him. They can’t drag him into their fights, making him choose a side, and then getting angry when he chooses ‘wrong’. As if there was a right side to begin with when it came to those two.  
  
His heart’s still pounding in his chest as he gets to a safe distance, but sees the bushes to the other side of the fountain and fighting twins start to shake.  
  
Ford sees it next, and nudges a mid-struggle Stan to look as well.  
  
A cloaked figure emerges. 


	8. Chapter 8

Ford and Stan are stunned into silence as they gaze at the hooded stranger. Mostly because the stranger is like 6’7” and cloaked in deep purple robes. In the middle of summer. Another two then emerge, and they all take off the hoods, revealing…  
  
Bulbous and long translucently teal heads that droop down, mouths covered by many tiny squirming tentacles and large deep black eyes on either side of their heads. The twins stare in horror at these beings, until-  
  
“--AGH! TOO BRIGHT, TOO BRIGHT! EVERYONE RE-HOOD. SUN’S TOO BRIGHT.”   
  
One in the back scoffs. “This is what we get for trying to be dramatic, Jerry.”  
  
“Shut up.” Jerry, the one in front, points at the insurgent indignantly. “Don’t question my authority. I’m leader for a reason.”   
  
Stan leans over, to quietly yell in Ford’s ear. “Sixer? What are these guys?”  
  
“Cerelopods.” Ford answers, his stare not leaving the squishy forms. “Beings of an otherworldly yet obviously cuttlefish-like origin with extensive psionic powers. They feast on the brains of others.”   
  
“Ah.” Stan nods. “So like… that wizard guy that tried to eat yours?”  
  
“Yes, like that ‘wizard guy’, except they aren’t as picky.” Ford sasses.   
  
Jerry the Cerelopod snaps his clawed fingers. “You two! Identical humans! Stop the chitter-chatter! We’re having a _discussion_ over here!”   
  
The Cerelopods continue to bicker about nothing as Stan and Ford both try to slowly back away. Much like Tommy did with them only moments earlier. They’re caught by the third one however, as she yells out--  
  
“HEY WAIT. THAT’S THE GUY!”  
  
Twin eyebrows raise as they both freeze in place and raise their hands in surrender. The guy?  
  
She quickly ducks her hand into her hood and digs out a small crumpled polaroid, showing it to her comrades. “See! It looks just like him! It has to be the guy!”   
  
The others crowd around and look, lifting their hoods up only slightly to get a better glimpse of the old photo.   
  
Stan and Ford side-eye each other as the group nods and mumbles in agreement.  
  
“It’s the guy!”  
“The smart guy!”  
“The one that we’ve been looking for!”  
  
It’s now just Stan looking at Ford. “Smart guy?” Ford winces.  
  
“Yeah!” Jerry grabs the photo and even shows it to him. It’s really old, depicting a younger Ford in the woods eating a sandwich. It’s also seemingly been taken through a bush or hedge. “We’ve been looking for you forever!”  
  
Stan bites his lip as Ford looks the second definition of nonplussed. “Thirty years, I take it?”   
  
“Years?”  
“Year?”  
“What’s a year?”  
  
His brother’s snickering at an uproar as Ford continues to seem dead inside. “Honestly? That can’t be me. That picture was taken such a LONG time ago, the guy you’re looking for would look much older by now.”   
  
The Cerelopods gather round, glancing at the twins and then at the picture. “Well, you do look a _little_ older. So… you have to be the guy!”   
  
“What.”  
  
Jerry then snaps his fingers. “Ah, but, which one is he?”   
  
The other Cerelopods nod in an agreed confusion as the one who first had the image takes it back. Which one, which one?   
  
“It’s not me.” Stan says as he tries to back away, hiding a sly smirk. “I’m a moron, I’d probably just make you dumber...”   
  
Ford frowns at that, looking back at him with a pout.   
  
Picture-Holding Cerelopod squints at Stan. “_Sounds_ like something a smart person would say to get out of being eaten.”   
  
“Yeah.”  
“That one’s the smart one.”   
  
Stan grins smugly.  
  
Protective Brother Instincts: Activate. “No! No, I’m the smart one! Eat me!” Ford cries, leaping between them and waving his arms around.   
  
The Cerelopods turn to face him in shock, as does Stan. “Sacrificing yourself for the dumb one would be very dumb…”   
  
Ford flinches.   
  
“_Unless_ this one actually _is_ the smart one and is trying to do _weird mind tricks on us_!”   
  
He nods eagerly, glancing back at his brother, trying to tell him to make a run for it. “Yes, that’s me! Doing weird mind tricks!”   
  
Stan charges back up and shoves Ford out of the way. “NO WAY! I’m the smart one! Eat me!”   
  
“Stan_ley_!”   
  
“Don’t you ‘Stanley’ me! You’re such a friggin’ idiot! After everything that’s happened, I’m _not_ just letting you sacrifice yourself to a couple’a squid-heads!”   
  
“BUT YOU WERE JUST--”   
  
They get into a fight again, with more shoving and arguing, as the Cerelopods watch in confusion. They exchange glances behind their leader, not knowing what to do. Jerry finally has enough, and shrieks out telepathically, lifting both twins in the air with his psychic power and raising his hands to the sky.   
  
“EVERYONE! I’VE COME TO A CONCLUSION!”   
  
The younger old men try to cover their ears to soften the booming echo of the leader. Bated breath as Jerry pauses and tucks his arms back into his sleeves dramatically, hanging his head. A wind blows, and it almost feels like a dark realization is coming to pass. He looks back up at the floating twin humans.

“They’re  _ both _ the smart one.”   
  
Stan and Ford’s pupils both shrink in terror as the Cerelopods behind Jerry all murmur in solidarity on the call. Yep. Both smart. Makes sense.    
  
The twins desperately try to argue that they’re the smart one and that the other is dumb as they’re carted off in the air, deeper into the forest, Tommy peeks out of the bushes. Crud. This day just went from bad to worse it seems. First they were gonna die by getting too young, now they’re gonna get their brain’s eaten, and it’s all his--   
  
There’s a rustling next to him.   
  
“Wow. Were those guys just knock-off illithids or something?”   
  
Tommy leaps back into the clearing with a start and lands on his rear as Dipper, twigs caught in the fluff of his hat, stares back at him.   
  
The 23-year-old then squints. “Have you been…  _ stalkin’ _ me? All day?”    
  
“No--”   
“YEAH!”    
  
Mabel also peeks out of the bush, leaves in her hair.   
  
Silently, Tommy meets her eyes, and then shifts over to Dipper’s.    
  
He rubs the back of his neck. “Slight… stalking. Just a smidge of stalking.”   
  
Tommy’s eyes narrow.   
  
“ _ BUTTHAT’SNOTIMPORTANT-- _ ”    
  
Dipper emerges from the shrubs and crosses his arms. “What IS important is YOU getting MY Grunkles back from the danger YOU put them IN.”    
  
The irate 13 year old was right. Tommy did sort of sit back and do nothing while they got kidnapped, so, once again, it’s his job to clean up the mess. That’s fair, he can’t argue with that.    
  
“Awlright, Awlright,” Tommy bellyaches as he stands back up, “I’ll go punch the cuttlefish’s noggins in an’--”   
  
“That’s… not the issue I was… I was clearly talking about the de-aging thing. Right Mabel?”    
  
He turns to is twin as she steps out of the brush too, and she makes a waggly hand movement and a shrug. “It was a LITTLE vague, bro-bro.”    
  
Tommy dusts himself off as Dipper groans. “Okay. Okay FINE. I  _ guess _ he can go fight the Off-Brand Mind-Flayers, and WE can go find the ingredients for the potion Great Uncle Ford was talking about in a big cool quest...”    
  
“Yay! That’s the spirit!” Mabel cheers.    
  
Tommy goes to pick up the equipment. “Yeah, cool, I--”    
  
He’s about to head off when Dipper interrupts again.   
  
“Hey. We brought the golf cart if you wanna, stuff all that junk there?”    
  
The… golf cart?   
  
A metaphorical light bulb goes off.    
  
“Actually. Can y’all call Soos to pick you up? I just got an idea.”    
  
“Oh boy.”    



	9. Chapter 9

A cauldron sits in the middle of a slimy and foul-smelling cave, the fire below it slowly bringing the contents to a boil. On a stalagmite closeby, are the two Stans, tied to it with a sturdy, impenetrable rope. Trust me, both have tried.   
  
They’re a little younger now, only early thirties, the paranoid stubble and regretful mullet in full bloom. Ford theorizes many reasons as to why the pace dropped so dramatically. The lack of physical activity might be slowing down the reaction, or, something to do with the ropes being so tight it’s halting their blood pressure a little, making it so the effects aren’t traveling so fast. Stan thinks they’ve all been equally stupid excuses and that his brother just doesn’t want to admit he fudged up the math again. Their captors are happily and readily chopping up various cave vegetables, alongside carrots and potatoes…    
  
“Ever thought it’d be like this?”    
  
“I didn’t expect the mullet to be back.” Ford admits with disdain.    
  
Stan scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Well, I didn’t expect it t’be the dumbest squid--”   
  
“Cuttlefish.”   
  
“-- _ Squid _ people in the world.”    
  
They both watch as one of the three struggles to use a knife, trying to use the blunt side to chop the carrot.   
  
“Honestly, I’ve only seen people this stupid in town.” Stan says.    
  
He tisks and clicks his tongue, while the gears in his brother’s head spin. A thought dawns on Ford, to his dismay.    
  
“...Say that again?”    
  
“I’ve... only seen people this stupid in town?”    
  
In horror, Ford nods. “Stanley, I want you to think back to what started occurring thirty-one years ago. Besides what happened with us.”   
  
He racks it around in his brain. “Well, lessie. Uh… Porky’s came out, 49’ers beat the Bengals in the Superbowl, Grace Kelly died--”   
  
“In  _ town _ , Stanley.” Ford deadpans.    
  
“Oh, uh. The Murder Hut started, and people in red cloaks would show up every so oft--”   
  
He’s cut off. “ _ The Society of The Blind Eye! _ Stanley, these creatures eat  _ brains _ , and what does constant exposure to the memory gun  _ do _ to brains?”    
  
“W--” Stan sees where Ford’s going. “Are you telling me they’re this dumb because their water hole’s been poisoned?!”    
  
One looks over at them, and Ford shushes his brother.    
  
They lock eyes for just a moment, and the Cerelopod goes back to work.   
  
Ford releases his pent-up breath. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. They’ve been feeding on the minds of the townsfolk, and thus have been affected by the gun’s effects second-hand! It’s no wonder they’ve been trying to find that same young Stanford Pines for thirty years. They can’t comprehend the passing of time!”    
  
“Also explains why they can’t tell us apart.” Stan adds.   
  
A little nod. “That too.”    
  
Jerry throws a rock over at them, it landing at their feet. “HEY, STOP TALKING OVER THERE! I’M DOING VERY IMPORTANT THINGS AND I NEED TO CONCENTRATE!”    
  
He goes back to his attempt to read a step-by-step guide to brain removal that is, unfortunately, upside down.    
  
Stan hears his brother release a sigh of defeat. “At the rate this is going, we’re going to be fetuses by the time they figure it out.” Ford complains.   
  
Not on Stan's watch.    
  
“HEY! TENTACLE BREATH! COULDN’T HELP BUT NOTICE SOMETHIN’!”   
  
“ _ Stan don’t antagonize-- _ ”    
  
Jerry throws down his book and stomps over to Stan, his temples lighting up and pulsating, color washing over his head in stripes. “WHAT?! WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY NOTICE THAT ESCAPED OUR VISION--”    
  
He smirks. “You’re missing a key ingredient.”    
  
Both Ford and Jerry blink.    
  
“What?”   
“Yes, what?”    
  
An elbow jabs into Ford’s arm, and Stan tilts his head towards Jerry.   
  
“What are y--oh! Yes!” Ford recovers after momentary anger. “Yes yes yes, it’s very important to your stew. Seals in the flavor, and even adds some needed nutritional value.”    
  
Jerry nods, stroking his tentacles like a moustache. “I’m listening.”    
  
Stan quickly tries to think of a lie. “It’s a magic, uhhh--”   
  
“--parsnip!”    
  
He bites his lip as he slowly turns over to Ford with an uneasy smile, his eyes almost closed he’s squinting so hard. “Parsnip?”    
  
“Yes.” Ford says with all the seriousness of a businessman in a board meeting, proposing a merger with another company. “They’re very rich in potassium. Which is a vital nutrient for multi-hearted beings like these.”    
  
Jerry squeals, clapping his hands together and bouncing like a schoolgirl. “I’m so glad you’re both so smart! Oh, what does it look like? Where do we find it?”    
  
“Yes, Sixer. Where do we find  _ Magic Parsnips _ ?” Stan also asks, physically having to hold himself back from calling his brother an idiot as to not ruin the con. Though he feels Ford’s about to do that on his own.   
  
A confident, smug look then appears on Ford’s face, much to everyone's surprise. “Typically they’re farmed in the enchanted part of the forest and sold at the underground weirdness market, but they can also be found wild. They appear to be an ordinary vegetable, save for the blue leaves with red thorns they have as stalks, but once cut open, their insides are also blue, with a white star-shape marking stemming from the center. They also have a faint taste of cotton candy.”   
  
The other Cerelopods have dropped what they’re doing, and one of them is absolutely writing all of this down.    
  
As they talk amongst themselves excitedly, Ford is calm and collected under pressure, almost humming with the sense of ease he’s radiating as he looks them all over. “You should hurry and find one, by the way. Before our brains lose their freshness.”    
  
Jerry hears that, and shoves his cohorts. “YOU HEARD THE SECOND SMART ONE! OUT! EVERYONE OUT! OFF TO FIND THAT PARSNIP!”    
  
And with that, Stan and Ford are soon all alone in the cave, one looking very proud of himself, the other being Stan.    
  
“That… bought some time.”    
  
“More than some.” Ford remarks. “Stanley, parsnips are a springtime  _ annual _ .”   
  
“I don’t know what that means.”    
  
“It means they only grow in the spring. What time of year is it?”   
  
Stan’s eyes widen. “So… wait, why is this better than just tellin’ them to go find a Magic Lime or something?”   
  
“Because Magic Limes don’t exist, which they’d find that out as soon as they asked at the market. Magic Parsnips however,  _ do _ .” Ford says. “They’d also be exceedingly hard to get a hold of in the market, and unlike some annuals, Parsnips do continue growing in the summer. However, any they find in the wild would be  _ completely  _ inedible!”    
  
“That’s…” Stan clicks his tongue, impressed. “...one heck of a wild goose chase.”   
  
“It was your idea.” Ford grunts as he tries to worm out of the ropes, or at least loosen them. No luck. “I just added my know-how to help it along. Now... we just have to wait for Thomas to come.”    
  
“If.”    
  
Ford looks confused. “If?”    
  
“Yeah. If.” Stan says. “The kid’s a jerk. What makes you so sure he’s gonna roll in to the rescue?”    
  
Because he’s done it before. “I just... have a hunch. Mostly as he’s a bit like another jerk I know.”    
  
“Who?”    
  
Ford slowly looks over at Stan, eyes nearly shut and mouth slightly open.    
  
Stan shrugs. “Seriously, who?”    
  
“Sometimes I genuinely worry about you.”    



	10. Chapter 10

Thirty minutes pass. No one. At least Stan and Ford are only getting into their late twenties.    
  
As they wait for… anything to happen, they pass the time talking.    
  
Awkwardly.   
  
“And… that’s why everyone was so skittish when we came back, and why that group of teenagers bombarded me. I still don’t understand why everyone thinks I’m so terrifying, however. Are people still afraid of genetic oddities in this dimension?”   
  
“No. It’s the laser gun.” Stan deadpans. “I promise you it’s the laser gun.”    
  
A lull in the conversation.   
  
“So... McGucket came by while you were out.”   
  
Ford perks up. “Oh? Was he well? What did he need?”   
  
“Just, asked how you were. Had some new phone he wanted to show ya. Looked like it was sized for six-fingered hands and easy t’read.” Stan says, trying to sharpen a rock against the ground with his feet. It’s going about as well as you’d expect. “He’s… looking like a human person. Still doesn’t wear shoes, but he’s got a shirt on at least.”    
  
“I’m glad he’s been recovering.”    
  
Stan nearly has the sharp rock in his mouth, until it pops out of his grasp and flies into the soup pot, making a splash. He groans, and softly hits his head on the stalagmite. “I’m still mad at you, by the way.”    
  
Ford raises an eyebrow and looks over at his brother. “For what reason?”    
  
That earns him a squint.    
  
“Sayin’ I’m acting like Pa. Because I’m not.”    
  
Oh. Ford rolls his eyes. “I said a  _ little _ like Pa! Just a smidge!”    
  
“I’m  _ nothing _ like him!” Stan argues, nostrils flaring out. “Pa would’ve kicked the dumb punk out by now! Pa wouldn’t’ve let him off the hook like I would’ve! I just wanted the guy to tell me how he found it!”    
  
There’s a bitter taste in his mouth as he gets quieter, shuffling his feet. “Jerk couldn’t even do that much, then he went and  _ insulted _ me...”    
  
There’s a tension in the silence as Ford takes that in. He didn’t think about all that. He’d inferred Thomas may have snapped a little at Stan aside from what he saw, yes, but he failed to realize the implications. Of course Stan would’ve felt attacked at Tommy’s frustration! In his own eyes, he’d done nothing to even slightly warrant that animosity. Ford curses Bill, and then himself for thinking a simple adventure would help circumvent this feud between the two.   
  
“Plus, the way you just… took his side? I… heh, don’t know what I expected... after all that praise you’ve been givin’ ‘im... ”    
  
Ford feels his heart crackle, words rising up but failing to escape his lips.    
  
“Thought… things were gettin’ better. Between us. We spent most of the year out hunting monsters and discoverin’ stuff all around. In a tiny boat. Like we dreamed.”    
  
Five-fingered hands clench, trying to physically hold back tears.   
  
“...Were you just humoring me? Stringin’ me along ‘til someone better for the job came up?”    
  
Somehow Stan knew how to throw both a mean physical sucker-punch, and an emotional one. There’s something clawing deep in Ford’s chest, something familiar and aching and it’s not letting him go. The word for it?    
  
Regret.    
  
“No, never Stanley! I--”   
  
Suddenly, the echo of a wild horn and screeching tires cuts him off. The Mystery Shack golf cart, driven by none other than Tommy ‘I Learned How To Drive From My Big Brother’s Crime Games’ Mason burns rubber as he slides in on two wheels, knocking over just about everything. Soup broth spills into what was once on a tipped-over table. Vegetables and cookware fly. With quick maneuvering, he stops right in front of the brothers. Like some sort of manic, Akira-sliding, knight in apron and bandana armor.   
  
He hops out as the cart idles, untying the simple butterfly knot hidden behind the pillar with a small yank. “Sorry I took so long, there’s... a  _ lot _ of caves here. May’ve upset a bear with seven heads? We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”    
  
The rope falls and Stan has already taken the driver’s seat. “Sounds great. You know how to get home from here?”    
  
Ford also buckles in, but stays silent.    
  
Unlike Tommy. “What? No, these woods hate me! Two days ago--”   
  
“A week and a half ago.” Ford says.    
  
“--A week an’ a half ago I nearly got my head bit off by a talkin’ plant that sounded like Levi Stubbs! Then I ate a raspberry that turned my tongue into a raspberry too! Which is…” He holds his chin pensively, calming down. “Not the weirdest thing my tongue’s been. Thinkin’ about it”    
  
Stan rolls his eyes and starts to drive away. “Cute. You can tell Sixer all about it when you get home. Without us.”    
  
A body stands in front of the cart. “What about the squids that took y’all? Where are they?! I was gonna run them over with the cart--”    
  
“They’re Cerelopods--”   
  
“Shut it, Poindexter.” Muffled grumbles as Stan’s forehead hits the top of the steering wheel. “They’re… out lookin’ for stuff in the woods…”    
  
“An’ you just want me to walk alone? With those guys runnin’ ‘round?”    
  
Ford’s glasses seem glared over as both Tommy and Stan lock eyes for a solid thirty seconds. There’s a small pleading in Tommy’s face, but a cold, dead anger in Stan’s. Yes. Yes he does expect you to just walk alone. You caused this whole mess. It’s your fault, and he’s mad at you. You’re not even family. Why would you expect kindness from him now?  Stan never got that when he was the punk’s age. Tommy looks to Ford for backup, a response, anything, but he’s not facing his brother.   
  
“Thomas, step out of the way. We really need to synthesize an antidote before we die. You catch up.”    
  
Tommy, after a momentary hitched breath, does. And as Stan and Ford drive past, Doc tosses him a bag from the back. Just to help him fend off any attackers.   
  
Dejected, Tommy watches them zoom off, Stan’s erratic driving apparent in even the small scale. Yeah they were dying and everything, but… he, had this all planned out in his head? He was… going to be so helpful, and then Stan would realize how much of a jerk he’d been to Tommy, and then… he doesn’t know! Everything would’ve been fixed and then he and Doc would’ve gone out for ice cream! Something happy for once in his life! Now he’s just left with a dumb bag, the magnet guns, a roll of duct tape, a handsaw, a megaphone--   
  
The magnet guns.    
  
He remembers that first week, when Doc told him the whole town was under a metal spacecraft, and how he explained the magnet guns had a setting to push objects away instead of pulling them close, and he used it to make an object… float...   
  
…   
  
Tommy gets an idea. Which is... always dangerous.   



	11. Chapter 11

Was I too harsh on him?”   
  
Ford’s getting younger, and so is Stan, still at that slower pace. Mid-twenties.   
  
“Nah. You could’ve been harsher, in my opinion.” Stan almost hits a gnome as he zooms along. “Didn’t have to give him the bag.”   
  
“Of course I did!” Ford argues. “It’s three high-level psionics against only one of him. He needed some sort of edge!”   
  
Pa didn’t give Stan any headstart like that. Just a duffle bag full of his crap and a shove out the door. Why did that punk need something extra? He looks in the mirror on the side to check for anything chasing them, on the off-chance one of the cuttlefish squidheads saw them, and only sees--   
  
He does a double take, and then tries to floor it. Cart’s already going as fast as it can. “Ah, heck! Sixer, you think you can build rocket boosters for this thing in ten seconds flat?!”   
  
“What?!” Ford asks, looking everywhere but behind. “Why? What’s going on--”   
  
“ ** _\--KZZZT-- THIS IS THE POLICE! PULL OVER THE VEHICLE IMMEDIATELY! --KZZZT--_ ** ”   
  
The megaphone lowers, and it’s wielder is none other than Tommy himself, somehow keeping up with the racing fast second-hand cart.   
  
“Nah, but I had y’all for a second, didn’t I?”  
  
There’s a beat of silence before Ford sputters. “Thomas?! How on Earth are you even--”   
  
He looks down, and sees how even. Well, except Tommy isn’t actually _ even _ , because if he was, he wouldn’t be moving forwards. This ‘dumb’ punk’s fashioned himself a hoverboard out of the magnet guns, using the handsaw to cut out a board from one of the wooden tables back in the cave, and duct tape to hold the thing together. He’s even go a foot hold so he doesn’t slide off.   
  
“You’re using the magnet guns set to a repulse charge against the metal spacecraft under this whole area, to propel yourself off the ground. Thus achieving hover-based flight.” Ford says, nothing but wonder in his voice, his mouth hanging open. “That is _ ingenious _ .”   
  
Stan grits his teeth as Tommy looks smug, and then over at Stan. A sight which causes him to blink in disbelief.   
  
“What in God’s name is that mustache?”   
  
The steering wheel gets gripped tighter. “MY TWENTIES WERE A ROUGH TIME!”   
  
Stan hits some bumps, and the cart bounces as they take a hard turn. Tommy quickly grabs hold to back pole, following the movement despite Stan’s efforts to shake him off.   
  
“WILL YA GET OFF!?”   
  
An agitated brow furrows. “No! An’ know what? When we get back, I’m gonna start a union with Soos, Melody, an’ Wendy.” Tommy gripes, wincing one eye as a leaf smacks him in the face. “Just to be a pain.”   
  
Stan doesn’t respond to that except with a roll of the eyes. Yeah, he’d like to see you try. Dumb kid.   
  
As they rush on, the group of cerelopods emerge from the woods, complaining about how their search is going nowhere, and how hungry they are. The cart speeds by before their strange w-shaped eyes. They watch it rush into the woods, blinking and bewildered. Until Jerry flashes red and screeches out in anger.   
  
“GAH! THEY TRICKED US! AFTER THEM!”   
  
Crap.   
  
Some blasts of energy shoot out of their squishy skulls at the cart, and one flies by the side of Tommy’s head, and between Stan and Ford. All three look back, with the twins exchanging a look of fear.   
  
“This is bad.”   
“Yeah, thanks for the deduction, Holmes.”   
  
Still under fire, the group levitating and getting closer, Tommy starts thinking again. The cart bumps and flies around, but his hand keeps a firm grip on it regardless, his head buzzing with possibilities. Blue squishy heads get closer. He feels around in his pocket, and pulls out a nice switchblade. His eyes glint with determination as he flicks open the blade. This morning flashes back in his head. Not a throwing knife, but it will have to do.   
  
He flips the hoverboard into the cart, nearly knocking it into Stan before Ford catches it, and stands one the back edge, still grabbing hold of both the knife and the pole. With hawk like eyes, he lines up the shot, thanking his lucky stars these guys were such Stormtroopers.   
  
“Thomas, what are you--”   
  
Stan hits a bump, and Tommy wobbles a little. Even closer the Cerelopods inch. He hurries to realign his head and arm. C’mon, he could do this..   
  
He’s got his arm up, target in sight, and…   
  
Deep breath, and the world around him seems to halt to a crawl dramatically.   
  
The weapon leaves his arm in a flourish. His throw perfect, his eyes shining with resolve, and his target perfectly in line. Get ready for a headful of blade, brainbreath.   
  
It spins in the air gracefully until--   
  
“OW!”   
  
The handle of it bonks Jerry in the face, and he falls over on the ground unceremoniously. His two friends crowd around him as he starts bawling, kicking his legs and wiping his eyes. As the three humans escape, Tommy watches blankly as the cart jumps back to the road, swerving a little before getting stable. A disappointing thought dawns on him.   
  
“...That was my favorite knife.” 


	12. Chapter 12

The golf cart pulls in beside the Shack as everyone piles out, some looking younger than when they got in.   
  
Late teens.   
  
Ford’s clothes are absolutely baggy on him, and so are Stan’s, but to a far lesser degree. Neither one can look at the other. Bad memories bubbling up seems to be the theme of today. The two of them plus a slightly miffed Tommy all start to pile inside. However, Dipper peeks out from behind the vending machine, squinting at Tommy, but addressing all of them.   
  
“Everything for the Fix-It Potion’s on the kitchen table. We’re going to be at the arcade for a few hours.”    
  
The twin brothers hurry in as Dipper clears his throat.    
  
“If they die, I’m blaming you.”    
  
A chill runs up Tommy’s back as the stakes are set. He watches Dipper slowly slide away, the kid leering at him the whole time. Okay! Oh-kayyyy. So, creepy kid’s gonna kill you if something goes wrong. Just make sure nothing does! Easy.    
  
He scurries inside for no particular reason, until he crashes into a white shirt.   
  
Slowly, Tommy tilts his head up, and sees the acne-dusted face of an 18-year-old boxer squinting down at him. Seems Doc’s already scuttled off into the kitchen to work on the cure, so it’s just him… and Stan. It’s not helping that his current look’s reminding Tommy so much of his own older brother. He just wants to put a fat lip on that mug, for all the pain Bubba put him through. The horror movies picked out just to make him shriek and lose sleep. The bouts of rage where he’d scream and shake Tommy around. Calling him a ‘tomboy’ and being proud one second, and then saying he’s a ‘prissy little freaky princess’ the next if he did something the lunkhead didn’t like. The fights with Dirk where afterwards Bubba’d threaten Tommy to take his side, even if he thought Dirk was in the right. Never being satisfied, always making fun of him and his interests no matter what, and despite that, Tommy wishing he was more like him…   
  
It’s all boiling up in a fever pitch, looking at that face.    
  
“Where’s the rush?” Stan asks cooly, glaring daggers at the punk. “Got someone else ya need t’put in danger?”    
  
Tommy doesn’t respond verbally, he just backs away. His fist clenches in rage.    
  
“Silent treatment, eh?” An eye roll. “Not like you’re usually a chatterbox or nothing.”    
  
Teeth grit, and yellow eyes pierce through the tense air.    
  
“Why?”  
  
Stan raises an eyebrow. "Why… what?"   
  
"Why go through all this trouble?" Tommy asks. "Why lull me into that false sense of security just to pull the rug out from under me like this? What do you even GAIN from it?"    
  
“What are you even talkin’ about?” Stan squints.    
  
Tommy sputters. “Wh-- _ Everythin’! _ Every word you’ve said to me before today!” He clenches his fingers into claws as he rants. “All the ‘Kid, I used to be you’ an’ givin’ me all that money an’ stuff! Then turnin’ right around an’ doin’ crap like this?! What’s your deal? Your damage?! You just an idiot jerk for fun?!”    
  
Stan bristles. He’s not an idiot, and he’s NOTHING like this low-down punk. The kid’s a lazy, selfish, thieving, good-for-nothing brat who’s been riding on the coattails of people better than him for his whole life. The only thing he’s good for is scraping barnacles out from under the saltwater taffy shop! He’s a loser! He’s weak! He just wants to get rid of him!    
  
Which is, just everything Pa said about him.   
  
Ignoring that. Stan is ignoring that and he’s not going to address it. He starts trying to not look at anything or anyone. Not like Pa, and he’s not like Tommy. He’s not like Tommy. He’s not--   
  
Horror fills him.   
  
There’s a full-body mirror right where he’s chosen to face, and looking right back at him, Stan sees a low-down, good-for-nothing, weakling loser of a punk.    
  
“Hey, Meathead!” A squawky and imperfect Cajun accent rants, his body getting up next to Stan. “You not hear me?! What, those dinner plates ain’t got potatoes growin’ in em’, do they?!”    
  
In a stonelike fashion, Stan turns back towards Tommy. His face stuck in an agape expression and eyes bulging.    
  
Tommy’s then gets his shoulders shoved.    
  
“What?! You wanna fight me, is that it?! Insultin’ and stealing from me ain’t good enough for ya, huh?!” Stan growls. “ _ And _ ya still trying it with that lie? Listen here,  _ Junior _ .” Another shove. “How about the next time you try to bow up t’me like some sorta tough guy, you get a better line, and ya pick on someone…”    
  
Poor choice of words. Mid-sentence, Stan feels his body tingle all over. Puberty being undone and he recedes further into youth.    
  
“Ya own…”   
  
His perspective is literally changing. Going from eighteen and a good nine inches taller than Tommy, to seventeen and eight. Sixteen and five.   
  
Fifteen and one.   
  
“...size?” He squeaks out, nearly eye to eye with the man who’s now eight years Stan’s senior.    
  
Tommy sniffs. Finally, a good reason to punch a teenager in the face.   
  
“Okay.”    
  
First blow’s a sucker punch to the gut on Stan, and it actually  _ hurts _ . He has to hold his stomach as he stumbles back. Okay, okay. So, the punk’s wimpy arms can hurt him now. Whatever. And the jerk doesn’t like fighting fair. That’s fine. That’s great.   
  
Neither does Stan.    
  
He tackles into Tommy like a football player, sending him crashing on the floor. Stan might’ve been the kid’s height now, and more than a few years younger, but at least he still outweighs him. Though, that’s not exactly a hard feat.    
  
Tommy frantically tries to get the lug off of him, shoving and kicking. They both get a lock on the other’s shoulders, however, and roll about the den, trying to knock the other off. A few knees to the ribs, a couple attempted headbutts, there’s no stopping these two knuckleheads. With a few swift movements and some evasive maneuvers, Tommy gets the upper hand, and pins the teenager in an armlock on the ground.    
  
Stan cries out for backup.    
  
“SixHER, h-help me!”   
  
“Hoho, holy…” Tommy shakes his head in shock as he laughs to himself. “Is that yer  _ voice _ , or did a violin string just  _ snap _ ?”   
  
“SHUHt UHp!” Stan cries out with a wheeze, blushing a deep red out of embarrassment and physical exertion. He put so much focus on trying to kick Tommy’s butt, he’s left himself completely unable to stop his own voice from breaking and cracking like a delicate vocal eggshell. “I didn’t aHSk to sUHound like this! It’s AHULL your fAHULt!”    
  
Tommy can’t help but cackle a little. Oh man! That weird puberty voice! No wonder the old man took up chain smoking at such a young age!   
  
Which gives Stan the perfect opportunity to retaliate with an elbow to the soft of Tommy’s stomach, and more tumbling.   



	13. Chapter 13

They fight on, as in the kitchen, Ford tries to ignore the fact his pants are literally falling off his body, and how his heart crinkles like tissue paper at his brother’s broken plea for help. Everything’s put together. The mustard seed and the holly leaves and the sprig of mint are added into the shimmering paste he has going, and it’s a good blue color. Just like the recipe calls for, if a bit too clumpy. Who has time to worry about texture though when lives are on the line?    
  
The belt’s adjusted to the tightest setting as he continues on, setting the measuring cup off to the side as he inspects the mortar of cure. He’ll break up the scuffle soon as he’s an adult again. It’ll be easier, Stan won’t be as heavy, and once everything’s back to normal, they all can talk everything out like rational, calm adults.   
  
Okay. Deep breath. Ford takes two fingers, scoops out a medium sized glob, and sticks it in his mouth. It’s bland, but if it gets the job done…   
  
More screaming as he swallows it down, and waits.   
  
There’s a tingle. Oh, good! Finally it’s--   
  
The waist of his pants drops to the floor.   
  
His sweater and shirt under fit him like a nightgown, as he finds himself even younger than before. Oh, of course it didn’t work! He never got it to work all those thirty years ago, why would work now?! This was a pipe dream from the start! He led Stan and Thomas on, thinking he could just whip something up and cure this…   
  
Ford sniffles as his lip trembles. The age… must be getting to him. He’s acting like a child, too…    
  
There’s a grunt and a pounding noise from the den. He peeks out of the kitchen, to find a same-aged Stan beating his tiny fists on Tommy’s chest, as Tommy lays on the ground and takes it.    
  
“STUPID STUPID STUPID IDIOT IDIOT DUMB!” Stan yells at him. “I HATE YOU!”    
  
Tommy’s face has no expression, and he even looks a bit dead inside. “That actually had a nice rhythm. Can I use that?”   
  
“ _ NO! _ ”    
  
In a timidity Stanford Pines has not known for years, he peeks his hands out of very floppy oversized sleeves, and wrings them as he goes to approach the two.    
  
“Uh, Stan?”   
  
“WHAT, POINDEXTER?!” Stan snaps at him, making Ford flinch. “CAN’T YOU SEE I’M LAYIN’ A SMACKDOWN ON THE GUY DEADSET ON STEALING EVERYTHING IMPORTANT TO ME!?”    
  
Tommy throws up a peace sign.   
  
Ford pouts and scrunches up. Eyes get watery. “Stan, we can get more money--”    
  
“ _ THIS ISN’T ABOUT THE STUPID MONEY AND YOU KNOW IT!  _ ”    
  
Stan’s cheeks are lobster red as he snaps. “HE’S STEALING MY FAMILY AWAY FROM ME! ALL YOU SEEM TO CARE ABOUT IS HIM! HOW SMART AND GREAT HE IS, BUT HE'S NOT! HE'S A LIAR AND A THIEF AND YOU'RE FALLING FOR IT!” Stan pounds Tommy's chest again, but Tommy shows no reaction. "--WHAT'S EVEN SO GREAT ABOUT HIM?! HE’S JUST, A JERK! HE’S...”    
  
He finally crumples, eyes watering as he curls up into a ball on top of Tommy.    
  
“He’s…like me.” Stan hangs his head with a sniffle. “He’s like me, so what’s he got I don’t that made you shove me out, but take him in just like that?”    
  
Ford finally brews the courage to speak up. “It's  _ because _ of you.”    
  
Silence.    
  
“He’s all alone, Stanny.” The old nickname tugs at heartstrings, drilling in to both of them how young they are. Fat tears stream down Ford’s cheeks. “He’s scared and afraid and eating trash and getting hurt, and it all reminds me  _ of how I didn’t stop Dad and how everything bad that happened to you was my fault-- _ ”    
  
Ford flinches with a wince, going quiet. Stan’s shivering.    
  
“You… blame yourself, for what Pa did?”    
  
Stan knows that the bag was already packed. Filbrick was just looking for an excuse. It hurts. It hurts like Hell. But he knows. Which is why he’s been lying to himself about it.    
  
There’s a tension in the air. Tiny six-fingered hands fidget with themselves as the head of their owner stares at the floor.   
  
“Yeah.” Ford responds. “Ever since it happened.”    
  
Stan’s lip is trembling as--   
  
“Not to interrupt this sensitive an’ emotionally-charged moment,” Tommy deadpans as he’s still under Stan, “but how about y’all have this conversation when you  _ don’t _ sound depressed chipmunks?”    
  
Ford quakes, looking like a child who’s being yelled at by an adult. “I… I couldn’t…”    
  
The weight on Tommy’s body slinks off.   
  
“Ya couldn’t get it t’work?”    
  
Ford slowly nods his head. They’re both ten now, and getting younger by the second.   
  
Stan collapses on his rear as he stares at his hands, hyperventilating. This… couldn’t be it! He can’t… not like this!   
  
Tommy, who’d been dissociating to all High Heavens while being punched by a child, springs up to his feet. He slowly looks around. One twin is shivering as he watches himself physically get younger, the other just lifted his sweater neck over his head, with his knees tucked in...   
  
Stan’s out of commission. So’s Doc.   
  
‘If they die, I’m blaming you.’    
  
The words echo in Tommy’s head as he rushes into the kitchen. Okay! So, that  _ isn’t _ happening! You’re fixing this, and then, everything’s gonna be fine! Plus, c’mon Teej, you do your best work under pressure! This is all because of you, anyways. You made the mess, you clean it up.    
  
He sees the mixture all in a mortar and pestle, and takes a small bite, and he has to scrape the taste off his tongue with his teeth. Eugh! That’s disgustingly bland! Okay, so, bland potion. That’s the problem. Think.    
  
From what he knows, potion-making isn’t an exact science. It’s more like, cooking, and just like cooking, taste is key. So. Sweet sap made them younger, and this potion’s like a blank canvas. So, what flavor would make them older? Something… mature? Does that even make sense?!   
  
Wait.    
  
Tommy pulls out his bottle of hot sauce. His, fermented hot sauce.    
  
Fermented.   
  
Matured.    
  
He pops open the cap and splashes some of it in there. It’s far-fetched, it’s goofy, it’s borderline improbable, but it’s worth a shot.   
  
It’s mixed into the paste until it’s all a nice almost-purple color, and it starts to shimmer even more. That’s a good sign? Maybe! He’s gonna say so! Okay! Now to go get--   
  
Tommy re-enters the den to find a baby Stan sucking his thumb on the floor, tears running down his face as Ford’s sweater lies on the floor with a big lump in it. Presumably Ford.    
  
“Oh, Good Golly.”    
  
He grabs them both, pulling Ford’s head back out of the neck of his sweater as he takes them into the kitchen. He sets Stan on the table as he first tries to feed Ford. His little baby head tilts to each side as he refuses the super spicy concoction. He knows it’s too hot, he can smell it.   
  
“Doc, c’mon.” Tommy pleads, choking back tears. “Work with me.”    
  
Big hazel eyes look up at Tommy with a wide, sad expression. The head they’re attached to then nods once dutifully, face getting serious. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth, preparing for the worst.   
  
The paste is shoveled in, and Ford swallows it down. Which is followed by a red face, tears and shrieking. Very much not enjoying how burningly hot that flavor is.    
  
“I know, I know. I’m sorry--”   
  
Stan also starts crying, as evidence of him taking a handful of it out of the mortar and shoving it into his mouth while Tommy wasn’t looking is all over his face. And hands. And shirt.    
  
Tommy sighs. “Great.”    
  
The next thing Tommy does is dive into the linen closet. He nabs two spare sheets to wrap these babies in. Ford’s gonna get overheated in that sweater, and Stan’s made a mess. He wipes down Stan with paper napkin before he wraps them both up, and he holds them one in each arm as he heads outside, and sits on the couch, bouncing them to calm them down.    
  
At least they’re not crying anymore.    
  
Baby Stan’s still giving Tommy a mean stink eye as Baby Ford tilts his head up to see the young adult.    
  
Tommy’s looking down at him too, starting to cry. “Doc, I’m so sorry that I messed up this bad. Didn’t mean for you to-- for  _ this _ to happen.” He sighs. “Will y’all ever forgive me?”   
  
A small six-fingered hand paps Tommy’s face, the owner looking up at him sunnily, with soft freckled cheeks.    
  
“T… T…  _ Tummy! _ ”    
  
Even more tears run down Tommy’s face as he huddles both twins closer.    
  
His exhaustion from the sudden rush that’s been today catches up with him, and with both bundles of Stan still resting their heads on his chest, he drifts off to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

“Sixer, just wake him up.”   
  
“He’s had a long day, I don’t want to--”  
  
“If yain’t doing it, I am!”  
  
“Stanley no--”   
  
Tommy’s nudged awake by an elbow to the shoulder. Blearily, he sits up, blinking as crickets chirp in the background, and the setting sun tints the summer sky red and purple. He doesn’t look to the sides of him, just in front.   
  
“Wha…?”  
  
Ford smiles. “I’m not sure how, but you did it, Thomas. We froze up, and somehow you pulled through.”   
  
“Huh.” Tommy nods. “Cool.”   
  
A six fingered hand taps the armrest of the couch. “...But.”   
  
“But?”   
  
Tommy looks over at Ford, who’s still laying on the young man’s arm. Well, he’s the correct age at least, but he’s got no glasses, and…  
  
The only thing he has on is a bedsheet.   
  
Ford smiles awkwardly. “If you could… fetch us, some clothes before the kids get home? We’d be grateful.”   
  
Tommy’s fully awake now, as his entire face drains of color, and his eyes seem heavyset in dread. Slowly, his head turns to face the yard again. He tries to wiggle his arm from behind Ford free, who leans forward to help unwedge it, and the wristbanded wrist slowly reaches for Stan’s own. He blinks at the movement, puzzled, as Tommy slowly puts the large hand around his neck.   
  
“Mr. Stan, can you just squeeze hard as you can right now?”   
  
Stan blinks at the request, and slowly looks at his brother for… confirmation?  
  
Ford sputters. “Wh-wh-- OF _COURSE_ YOU DON’T ACTUALLY CRUSH HIS WINDPIPE, STANLEY!” He barks. “WERE YOU HONESTLY CONSIDERING--”   
  
Tommy puts all his weight on Stan’s hand as he leans into it, groaning.   
  
“Okay.” Ford sighs and ties the bedsheet around his waist like a towel. “I’ll go get my own clothes. Don’t kill each other while I’m gone.”   
  
He grumbles as he gets up, rubbing his back. The door closes behind him, and Stan actually starts putting pressure on Tommy’s neck. The 23 year old braces for the end, as Stan…   
  
Shoves him back into his seat.   
  
“So. Even after everything I chucked at ya, you were still trying to save me.” He says gruffly, with a click of the tongue.   
  
Tommy blinks. “Well, you kinda ate the paste on yer own…”   
  
“Kiddo. You coulda punted me, or thrown me against a wall. You coulda left me in the den to deage into nothing.” Stan sighs, massaging his brow and removing his hand from Tommy’s person.  
  
“Instead you brought me into the kitchen, and set me right next to the magic crap.”   
  
“Wh--” Tommy squints. “_Why would I punt a baby?! Who does that?!_”  
  
“You would be surprised,” the old man deadpans. “So, about what you stole--”   
  
Tommy grumbles. “This again?! I didn’t steal the stupid money but I guess if yer gonna treat me like this from now until the end of time, FINE! I’ll--”  
  
Stan smacks the back of this punk's head.   
  
“Will ya shut it?! I’m tryin’ to apologize over here!”   
  
Tommy’s stunned silent. The old man is doing what now?  
  
“... Look. Am I happy about 600 dollars going down the drain? No. Do I still think you stole it? Yes.” Stan says, and Tommy huffs.  
  
“But…” Stan stretches out his shoulder, “those reasons aren’t why I… did what I did.”  
  
With that, Tommy raises an eyebrow.   
  
Stan continues. “I uh… used to be in your position. When I was younger.” He slaps Tommy as the punk rolls his eyes. “Hey! I was! And it was some of the worst days of my life! Eating out of garbage cans just to survive, sleeping in my car. It was terrible. Not to mention lonely.”   
  
Stan gets pensive, wringing his hands together anxiously.   
  
“...The worst part about it is, I blamed myself. Like it was my own damn fault my dad kicked me out, and that it was… my own responsibility to be worthy of his praise.”  
  
Any hardness on Tommy’s face softens at that, as words continue to pour from Stan’s lips.  
  
“I made a dumb mistake, and for the longest time, Sixer pushed me out. When we _would_ talk, a fight would break out between us. Either due to his thickheaddedness... or mine.”   
  
Tommy rubs his arm. “The fightin’ kinda sounds like my own brothers. They were… twins, too.”   
  
“So you’re like a reverse Sherm, huh?”   
  
“Who?” Tommy asks tensely.   
  
“Eh, nevermind.” Stan brushes off the subject.  
  
“Where I’m going with this is, the way you sorta just, literally dropped in from nowhere, and suddenly became my brother’s favorite person overnight? To the point he’d SEDATE me over you? It… bugged me. Honestly, it still bugs me. Because when I was your age, I got none of that from him, and since you’re so much like me, I didn’t see what made you so… special.”   
  
Tommy looks up at him with wide eyes.  
  
"I didn't realize that it was... _because_ you’re so much like me.”  
  
Stan closes his eyes.  
  
“And Ford too, thinkin' about it.”   
  
Really? He’s like, Doc? Tommy can’t help but deeply ponder this, trying to figure out how. He’s not really anything like the old man. Either of them in his opinion, but mostly Doc. That guy’s a lot more put together than him.   
  
“So… how about this. You’re still an attraction, but we put those hands to use. Ford said you play music, or whatever. You do that here, and I'll even let you keep some of the cash you make."  
  
Tommy squints. “How much?”  
  
“I was thinking… eight percent?”  
  
“Ninety-nine. I won’t go lower.”  
  
Stan groans and massages his browline. “Kid. This isn’t how negotiation works. Look, how about ten? Out of six hundred, that’s sixty dollars. Plus, you’re basically working two jobs now. You’ll get that sixty, and then you’ll get whatever the other stuff you’re being paid for working with Ford, and that’s going to add up fast.”   
  
Tommy shuffles anxiously. “But you’ll still be makin’ a profit off of my labor an’ scamin’ me out of money--”   
  
Stan groans. “No, I’m charging you to use my establishment, along with other… insurance costs.” He gets in close to Tommy’s face. “I saw what you did to the toaster. I don’t want that happening inside my gift shop with no way to pay for it.”   
  
There’s a look of guilt on Tommy’s face as he blushes. “Okay, fair point.”   
  
“Glad we’ve come to an understanding.” Stan grins, as some of his bedsheet falls down, and he lifts it back up like it’s a fallen shirt sleeve. “A little ‘you scratch my back I scratch yours’ goes a long way. Remember that kid.”   
  
“Right…” Tommy rolls his eyes.  
  
“Oh, speaking of, could you? I’ve been needing a new back scratcher…” Stan jostles his hand.   
  
With a dead-eyed stare into the abyss, Tommy scratches between Stan’s gross, hairy, naked old-man shoulder blades. He thinks he feels his soul exit his body a little bit.  
  
“...Just to make sure, this ain't all another set-up, is it?" Tommy asks tensely.  
  
Stan makes a face. "No. Why?"  
  
It's uncomfortably silent for the next two minutes.  
  
"One of my older brothers would... do stuff like that. As a joke." The air is tense as Tommy confesses. “He’d do what I thought were nice things at the time, an’ then he’d pull the rug out from under me. Just for a laugh.”   
  
Stan… clasps his hands together, feeling the age upon them as Tommy continues both speaking, and scratching.   
  
“While that one was always pickin’ on me, the other avoided me like the plague. Our dad was always at work, an’ my mom…”  
  
Tommy flinches, unable to finish the thought.   
  
It takes a moment for it all to sink in, but… Stan nods. “And you’re telling me this ‘cause…?”  
  
“Because, all day, you’ve been remindin’ me of my brother who would pick on me.” Tommy admits. Tensely retracting his hand and grasping at the parts of the couch cushion beside his pressed-together thighs. He feels his anxiety squeeze him for all he’s got, like a child’s hand on a lemon rind during a hot summer afternoon.   
  
“An’... I know it's stupid, but, now that you got me under yer thumb, I'm scared I’m gonna be yelled at or punished ‘cause I failed to laugh at yer joke hard enough or I didn’t agree with somethin’ you said with enough enthusiasm--”   
  
There’s a firm hand on Tommy’s shoulder.   
  
“No.” Stan says, not meeting the young man’s eye. “That ain’t going to happen, punk. I’m old, I’m cranky, and I want my money, but I’m no bully.”   
  
He looks Tommy dead in the face. “This _isn’t_ a scam.”   
  
A pause.  
  
“Against you. I’m scamming folks rich enough to go on road trips. You? You’re fine.”   
  
The young adult can’t help but laugh a little at that. This old man was a lot more than what Tommy first gave him credit for. Sure, he’s a scam artist, but… he’s also just an artist period, it seems. Something Tommy can definitely relate to, being an entertainer himself.   
  
Well. Sort of an entertainer. Ex-entertainer? Currently freelance entertainer? It's a complicated story.  
  
…One that can wait until Stan gets his actual clothes back on. 


	15. Chapter 15

“So,” Stan starts off, hours after putting back in his dentures, getting his hearing aid, and having his glasses on. He meets Tommy in his… Soos’ office. It’s. Soos’ office. Right.   
  
They’re sitting across from each other. Tommy’s got his chair leaned back, and feet sitting on the desk. Which. Stan, is choosing to ignore.   
  
“This is your plan for your act?”   
  
Tommy nods, looking at the sheets of notebook paper he put into Stan’s hands.   
  
Stan has to admit, it’s a lot more put together than Soos’ ‘Questiony the Question Mark’ concept. Tommy has an actual understanding of costume design, some practical effect knowledge, good ideas about how to use sound to create an atmosphere with speaker placement, it ties into the lore of the Shack really well…   
  
There’s just one problem.   
  
“Do you have any idea how much this is gonna cost?”   
  
Tommy frowns, and shows some discomfort on his face. “...No.”   
  
Stan does.   
  
“Kid if the pyrotechnic display doesn’t burn me into the ground, the rest of the effects will.”   
  
Tommy groans. “Oh, c’mon!”   
  
“You want an ACTUAL ANTIQUE ELECTRIC CHAIR?”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“And flash pots to go off in beat with every song?”   
  
“Uh-huh.”   
  
Stan shakes his head. “And what’s this next one, a Disco--”   
  
“Disco Skull.” Tommy finishes. “It’s a giant skull covered in reflective glass, glued on like a mosaic. I’m gonna step out of it, an' that’s when the fireworks go off. Then the animatronic bat comes down an' spits out fire durin’ my solo.”   
  
Just _ thinking _ about how much this would cost knocks the wind out of Stan, as he holds his forehead, leaning his elbow on the table.   
  
“No. We can’t do any of this. Except the costume. We can get Mabel to help with that.”   
  
Tommy groans. “You can’t even get a band?”   
  
“No.” Stan stresses. “I only know three other people who play instruments who’d be available. One’s even more of a punk than you that I’ve banned from the premises, and I don’t think you want a sousaphone or a banjo player.”   
  
Tommy puts his feet on the ground and sputters out in protest. “Wha-wha-wha-- Soos plays the keyboard!”   
  
“Soos will be BUSY being Mr. Mystery!” Stan lifts his hat, and scratches his head. “Look, I got some illegal fireworks upstairs, and Mabel’s made an entire wax statue before--”   
  
Tommy shivers. “You mean the one of you in the storage room? I swear, sometimes when I go in there, it’s starin’ at me..”   
  
“It took her a long time to remake Wax Stan and I will NOT hear anything negative about him.” Stan orders. “He’s family.”   
  
“Fine.”   
  
Stan nods. “Okay. So, here’s the deal. I’m gonna give you a week to either cut down the costs, or come up with something new. I can get some of this stuff for free, or cheap, but there’s no way in Chattahoochee we’re gonna get all of this in under 200 dollars.”   
  
200 dollars? Ugh. So, he has a price limit now. Cool. Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. So he’s got a week to figure out a different act. That’s freaking superb. So. A… week.   
  
A week.   
  
Tommy taps his foot. “Uh, when’s the deadline exactly?”   
  
“The fifteenth.” Stan looks tired. “It’ll be your birthday present to me.”   
  
“Right.” There’s some quiet from Tommy. He shifts his gaze all around before fixing his watch at the ground.   
  
Then he sticks his hand out for a shake, staring Stan in the face.   
  
“Deal?”   
  
Not thinking much of it, Stan does, and stares back into Tommy’s eyes--   
  
He looks haunted for a moment, before knocking the expression loose from himself, and slaps a crisp twenty dollar bill into Tommy’s hands.   
  
“Actually. Your limit’s 220. But you gotta use this to buy a pair of colored contacts.”   
  
“Uh, why? What’s wrong with my eyes?”   
  
“Nothing. Stop asking questions.”   
  
  
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End file.
